(Warning: un-PC and offensive. Contains emotionless, degrading, mean sex + mild femdom + SPH + raceplay).
“I have to do WHAT?” Sydney Sweeney’s voice snowballed into a scream. “You are joking! TELL ME YOU ARE FUCKING JOKING!”
“Syd, you signed a contract,” her lawyer sounded petulant over the phone.
“I was drunk!” she raged, heavy fuck-toy breasts jiggling inside her crop-top. “As if I actually read any of the shit you shove in front my face! I thought I was signing up for some retarded Make-A-Wish cancer kid thing where I go to a hospital dressed as Spider-Woman, or some shit!”
Calculated pause. “…I don’t know about cancer, but you’ll definitely be making wishes come true today.”
“Very funny.” A finger twirled a platinum-blonde lock into an angry little corkscrew. “Come on, can’t you work some angle and get me out of this? You’re Jewish, for fuck’s sake. What do I pay you people for?”
She heard a sigh. Mr Fiedelman was clearly wondering if this would be the last day he worked for the bitch-princess.
“There’s nothing I can do, Syd. The Touch of Love Initiative has you on a contract. Break it, and they can sue us for millions. Come on. One day, and then it’ll be over.”
You had to hand it to the engineers at Apple. Sydney Sweeney’s phone didn’t entirely shatter when it hit the wall.
A Touch of Love representative was waiting for her in the Orthopedics wing.
He handed her a t-shirt, made her sign forms—she saw the phrase sexual emission achieved through stimulation of the undersigned’s mammary glands on one of them and wanted to puke—and then ushered her to a sectioned-off cloister of the ward, where boys in private rooms were waiting to be serviced.
The first boy was a scrawny twig of an 18 year old who had shattered both wrists in a skateboarding accident. He lay in bed, both his arms immobilized in casts. His eyes flew wide open when Sydney Sweeney filled the doorway.
“Oh my God…” he murmured, lip trembling. “Is this real?”
Maybe if I pinch myself awake, it won’t be.
Sydney shut the door and stood in front him, hands on hips, letting him take in her buxom figure. His gaze on her breasts felt like crawling insects.
“Alright, so here’s the deal,” she decided that a firm hand would be required with these kids. “As a lucky participant in the Touch of Love initiative…”
Sydney reached up to her shoulders, and yanked on the black straps of her crop top. Her huge boobs flew upward, almost burying her head in cleavage. The kid’s avid eyes tracked the massive bounce of her giant breasts.
“…you get to fuck these puppies.”
She released the straps. The crop top fell to her waist, and her huge pale tits dropped with it, bouncing against her torso with a pair of loud, moist slapping sounds.
Whap! Whap!
“Holy shit,” the boy breathed as the most famous jugs in Hollywood jiggled to a halt, four feet away. Her nipples seemed to stare forward like car headlights.
“I’m busy, so let’s get this show on the road…” Sydney glanced at the name written at the foot of his bed “…Trevor?”
She tied her long blonde hair back in a high ponytail, tossed it over her shoulder with a practiced flick, and climbed onto the bed with him.
She crawled between his spread legs, her hips moving from side to side with a predatory pantheress sway.
Trevor gulped. His brain seemed to have bluescreened with shock. Sydney was literally on top of him. The boobs he’d fapped to hundreds of times were swinging pendulously over his crotch, looking massive and heavy and soft. He could feel their naked heat merging with the hotness of her breath on his face.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked her.
“No.”
She hooked fingers under the elastic of his waistband, and pulled his boxer shorts down. A stubby five inch dick popped out, jutting in the air. She glared at it in disgust, like it was a worm in her couscous salad. She was so used to horse-hung men that she’d forgotten that small cocks exist.
She retrieved a tube of water-based lube from her hip pocket—what a joke that Touch of Love had expected her to bring her own lube—and squeezed a cold mint-scented jet into her cleavage. Then she grasped a huge naked breast in each hand, and plopped them around his shaft, burying it in flesh.
SQUISH!
She pumped her tits around his dick with military efficiency, squeezing them like she was kneading dough. Obscene moist sounds filled the hospital ward as her tit-cannons rose and fell.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
Her breast-assault had a devastating effect on the young man. Trevor’s head tipped back. He moaned on each squeeze. “Oh…oh…ohh…don’t stop…it feels fantastic…”
Sydney didn’t stop. Didn’t raise her head. Didn’t make eye contact. She gritted her teeth as she worked like a machine. Her slippery boobs seemed to pour and ooze over his cock like gelatin, more liquid than solid, she watched his cock spear out of her cleavage briefly before vanishing hundreds of times, like a sailor drowning in an all-swallowing sea of white flesh. Next to his scrawny legs and less than incredible penis, her tits looked as massive as footballs.
His mouth gaped in pleasure, and he began bucking his hips against her ensnaring cleavage, trying to spike his cock still deeper. As his slim hips smacked against her underboobs, they made disgusting fucking sounds. SCHLUP! SCHLUP! SCHLUP! Sydney kept her head down, ruthlessly titwanking him with the same technique she’d used on countless middle-aged Hollywood film moguls. She’d wanted to become a star, no matter the cost, and her casting couch had been a double-wide futon.
Isn’t the point of being famous that I don’t have to do this type of shit anymore? she thought, feeling his cock throb harder and harder in her cleavage. I am beyond the point in my career where I should be titfucking ugly losers with pin-dicks. Well beyond. Also, it’s been five minutes. Can this dork please cum already?
“Ugh!” he grunted, sweat shining on his face. “Sydney…y-you’re gonna make me…!”
She blew a loose strand of hair out of her eye. “No shit, Sherlock. That’s the idea here.”
Her boobs vibrated like jelly as he jackhammered himself to completion. Then his mouth shot wide open, and his hips wildly spasmed.
“AHHH! I’M CUMMING! I’M CUMMING!” Trevor pumped his hips in deep. “I’M CUUUUMING!”
His cockhead poked out between her glistening cleavage, and began blasting fat white ropes.
Seven bursts of sperm SPLATTED against the inner curve of her chin. Five or six more missed her chin, but splashed into her neck, sliding down and pooling in her collarbones. The boy’s load pulsed away into increasingly small jets. She felt his cock go flaccid in her cleavage, shrinking away into a pool of gelid sperm.
Sydney pulled away from between his hairy legs, rocking back onto her heels. Jizz flowed in lumpy-thick streams down both her enormous tits.
“Do you have tissues?” she asked, gesturing at her cum-covered boobs. The kid had been incredibly backed up. She almost felt sorry for him.
The ruined boy gazed up at her in slack-jawed disbelief. He looked like he’d ejaculated his few remaining brain cells out through his cock. “Wow…I can’t believe that happened…”
“I said, where are the fucking tissues?” she flapped her hands in anger. Splooge was running down her cleavage, into her belly button.
She found some, wiped away handfuls of fresh cum. Ugh. Gross. She flung a dozen sodden tissues into a wastebin. Then she found her crop top, and pulled it back up over her breasts.
“Thank you so much for doing that,” he whispered. “I write fanfic. Before my accident, I mean. I have an Ao3 account. I wrote some about you, and printed them out…they’re in that drawer if you want to read them… it would mean so much to me if you did…”
Sydney spun, jabbed her thick ass back at him, and headed for the door.
“I don’t really care, but thanks.”
When her agent called, she was in her Bentley with the tinted windows rolled up. “Hey Syd, how’s it going?”
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’m just taking a break.”
“Already? You haven’t even been at the hospital an hour.”
He paused.
“I hear a whirring noise. Sydney, are you masturbating?”
“No!” Sydney snapped off her pink vibrator, and pulled it out from between her legs.
The car stank of sweat and horny 26-year-old pussy. She had the Touch of Love t-shirt tucked under her shaven snatch to absorb her squirt, and her long tanned legs up on the dashboard as she jerked herself off. Her pink-painted toes switched against the tinted windshield, leaving toe-prints on the glass.
“I need a break,” she said, bouncing a thumb off her tumescent clit. “These boys are fucking awful. I’ve had so many unborn children sprayed over my boobs that Planned Parenthood should erect a statue of me.”
“Syd, I understand this isn’t how you wanted your day to go, but you can’t fall behind schedule. There’s still more boys to service. And we need you at Giambattista Valli Couture at five to pick out a dress for the Met Gala.”
“Fucking blah-blah-blah.” She hung up, and plunged the vibrator back into her sloppy whore-hole.
She jerked off frantically for several minutes, her legs tensing and untensing on the car’s dashboard. Sensing she was running out of time, she wiggled her hips still further down on the t-shirt, spread her quivering buttcheeks, and shoved a finger into her asshole.
She hit her G-spot and orgasmed like a firehose, her pussy blasting cum onto the t-shirt. She screamed, her kicking legs triggering the horn on the steering wheel.
“You’re on a roll, Sydney,” her agent said over the phone. “Just one more boy, and then you’re done.”
“Sure, sure,” she murmured distractedly in the front seat of her car.
“Just a reminder about Giambattista Valli tonight. He likes his clients to arrive ten minutes early. Sydney, there’s that noise again. Are you sure you’re not masturbating?”
“No! I’m not. Actually, hold on a sec…”
She hit MUTE just as an ungodly orgasm roared through her. It had come out of nowhere. Cum out of nowhere. Spasms and shudders seemed to tear her body in half. Her pussy volleyed jets of squirt over the soaked shirt and car seat.
Once she’d spiraled back down to Earth, she unmuted her agent.
“I sneezed. You were saying?”
She swung open the door, and was shocked.
The black man on the bed was far older than any of the other boys, and seemed to be in his late thirties. He had a lean, greyhound build. His hair was buzzed back to a shadow on his ebon scalp, and his face was lined and tough. A small teardrop tattoo slid out from under his left eye. There was a senewy hardness to him that made all the white boys she’d been titfucking seem as soft as poached eggs.
Most bewilderingly, there was nothing wrong with his arms.
He sat in bed, playing a mobile gacha game. His fingers and thumbs flew over the touchscreen with the dexterity of Liszt at a grand piano.
She cleared her throat, and he put the phone down.
“Sup, white bitch.”
His confident stare seemed to pierce her like a pin through a butterfly.
This was no nervous, stammering dork. He looked her up and down with cool appraisal, as though she were a car he was about to take for a test drive.
Sydney felt objectified. She was meat, and here was a wolf. Her pussy began to throb with sexual arousal.
“Your hands work.”
An inquisitive eyebrow shot up. “And what if they do?”
“The Touch of Love program is for guys who can’t masturbate. And if you can use your hands, then…”
He sighed with exaggerated patience.
“For your information, my arms suffer from Post-Trump Traumatic Syndrome.”
Post-Trump Traumatic Syndrome? Sydney had never heard of such a thing.
“Um, what’s that?”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t expect a Becky-ass snowbunny like yo’self to understand the three hundred years of institutional and systemic violence a black man inherits in this country, but ever since that peckerwood Trump got hi’self elected, I been having random bouts of localized paralysis. Sometimes my legs don’t work. Sometimes my arms. Got myself a specialist who reckons its the trauma of inherited racial memories doin’ a number on my CNS.”
He shrugged.
“Post-Trump Traumatic Syndrome is useful when I need a fenny script renewed, or a single-occupancy stir at Twin Towers. And when I heard famous white bitches like yo’self were touring hospitals, I felt my PTTS flarin’ up something fierce.”
Sydney giggled. In spite of everything, she liked this individual. You had to respect a clever scam, right?
Fuck jazz. The great American artform has always been hustling people.
“Does anyone ever call you a liar?” She asked, slinking shyly up to his bed.
“No. Because then I go right to HR and report they ass. Ain’t nobody gonna question my lived experience as a black man. You gonna take care o’ me, or what?”
He pulled down the bedsheet, exposing a horrifying bulge in his jeans.
“Get me unzipped, slut.”
“Okay!” Suddenly obedient and eager to please, Sydney dropped down into a squat. She unbuttoned his jeans, pinched the zipper between her thumb and index finger, and slooowly pulled it down over the throbbing bulge. She only made it halfway.
His gigantic black cock erupted out through his jeans, nearly slapping her in the face. Its sheer size made her recoil. Several inches longer than the biggest dick she’d seen that day, and thicker than a TV remote, this cock belonged on a plow animal, not a human. The stench of unwashed cock hit her like a wall—the huge penis reeked of dried sperm and musk, overwhelming the floral notes of hospital sanitizer with a brutal, primal male smell.
Was the AC running too hot, or was she? Her face boiled with sweat. Her makeup started to run. Her throat constricted; her pulse slammed in her ears like a trip-hammer. Her reproductive organs seemed to be melting down and running out between her legs.
Awestruck, she knelt and wrapped both sets of fingers around the monolithic shaft. Both her hands, stacked on top of each other, still didn’t cover half the length.
“I’m not fucking your tits,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Of course she knew this. Wasting this dick on her tits seemed conceptually inconceivable. As nonsensical as square circles and dry water.
There was place for his dick except THERE. And there was nothing that could possibly fill THERE except THIS.
Sublimated feminine instincts were kicking in. She needed to be bred by this cock. Mated by it. Seeded by it. This day had been long and bullshit-filled, and she was going to end it with a huge shaft splitting her like firewood.
Burning with lust, she undressed. She didn’t just remove her crop top straps, she ripped the top off entirely. Her mega-sized tits spilled out in a landslide. She desperately pulled off her chambray cutoffs, then her soaked Calvin undergarments. It all went on the floor.
For the first time, she was naked. Cool hospital air swirled across her overheated twat. Lightning bolts of excitement darted and wove through her flesh. Her body was covered in sweat, she felt something trickle down the inside of her thigh, and her clit pulsed like an outboard motor.
The tabooness of this act set her mind on fire. Sydney had cheated on her boyfriend with a ton of white boys, but never with a black man. This was her first black cock.
(Well, basically the first. Jamal didn’t count because she’d been stoned when they’d had sex, Isaiah and Julius didn’t count because those had been blowjobs, Alex didn’t count because he’d only put the tip in before her mom had knocked on the bedroom door, Kareem didn’t count because he’d been a douchebag, the boys on the high school basketball team didn’t count because…)
Sydney climbed on top of him on the bed, straddled his body with her thick white-girl thighs. He gripped her hips, steering her, guiding her, positioning his cock under the labial folds of her dripping, desperate pussy.
The sight of his nine-inch shaft aimed at her slot triggered a fear that was almost like vertigo. Oh God, it’s so far to fall…do I dare…?
He let go of her hips. She plunged down upon the immense penis, riding it to the base, gasping throatily as it filled and stretched her out. The plum-sized head was pressed against her cervix.
Sydney arched her back, grunting like a pig, her eyes rolling back in her head. Her spine was gripped by a massive surge. It was like getting fucked by a fencepost. Through his cock, she felt every throb of his heartbeat—much more powerful than hers—as she ground her hips against his.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sydney’s mouth chanted curses that felt like holy catechysms.
She humped his dick like a bitch in heat. Her moist depths devoured him, over and over. Unlike the white teenagers before him, he didn’t mewl or whine or cry as her slick pussy swallowed his tool. He just smiled. A man in complete control.
For her, this was Hall of Fame worthy dick.
For him, this was Tuesday.
She lost control, became dick-berserk, taking him hard and fast with her hungry, slurping hole. Gripping his shoulders, she started to bounce on him. Her gigantic breasts jackhammered up and down, nearly clubbing her in the face with each upward swing.
WHOP! WHOP! WHOP!
Like predators attracted by movement, his black hands clasped down on her white tits, twin moons eclipsing double suns. She looked down, and saw white flesh gushing out between his hard, calloused fingers, like sausage filling bursting through casing. She had never felt so vulnerable. So fragile.
An orgasm was rushing down on her with Mach-5 speed.
And she could already see a second, third, and fourth one queuing up behind it.
How long do I have before visiting hours end at the hospital? Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving. I’m Sydney Sweeney, I’m a star and they’re nothing, and I’ll stay here all night if I want. All fucking night.
As Trump had said, when you’re famous, they let you do it.
But then she remembered her appointment. “Holy shit, I’ve got to call someone!”
Still riding him hard, she grabbed her phone. No time to waste. The waves of pleasure were coming already, and the world was crumbling, shattering like a rotten pinata. She speed-dialed, rushing toward oblivion.
“Cancel my booking tonight!” she hissed at her agent, sweat beading on her scalp. “It’s worse than I thought! There’s a man here who needs urgent help with his problem! Urgent help! I might be here all night!”
He sounded desperate. “Syd, you can’t cancel! Giambattista Valli books out a month in advance! What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know or care!” A moaning started deep in her chest, ripping outward. She couldn’t restrain it. “I signed a contract with Touch of Love so YOU TELL THAT FUCKING WOP TO SHOVE HIS SHITTY-ASS DESIGNER CLOTHES UP HIS…AAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
She ended the call just as her climax rolled through her like a wrecking ball. Muscles and tendons flexed in her pretty swanlike neck as she let out a piercing, bestial scream.
Sydney Sweeney writhed as if transfixed by lightning, creaming mindlessly on his massive railway spike of a dick, the world dissolving to quarks and gluons and an endless bright void beyond.
“FuuuUUUUuuUUUCK…!”
(The End)
Leave a Reply