Chapter 2

The afternoon sun hung low over Atlanta as Savannah sank into the plush leather of the Obsidian Throne-provided limo, the cool interior a stark contrast to the heat still simmering in her body from the studio. She stretched out in the passenger cabin, her tight white t-shirt clinging to her chest, her painted-on jeans molding to her thighs, her ponytail brushing her neck as she shifted. Her cross pendant rested against her skin, the diamond ring glinting faintly on her finger, but her mind churned with the day’s recording—D-Mack’s commanding presence, those new lyrics she’d rapped, the way her voice had bent under his will.

The limo’s speakers pulsed with music, an older D-Mack track titled “Black Reign,” its beat heavy and relentless, the bass vibrating through her bones. His voice filled the cabin, coarse and braggadocious, dripping with the black-sexual-superiority theme she’d come to recognize:

I’m the king, bitches kneel to my might,
White, Asian, Latina, they crave me all night,
Black cock’s the scepter, I rule their desire,
Fuck ‘em ‘til they break, set their souls on fire.

They ditch their weak men, chase my savage game,
I own every hole, they scream my name,
Power in my thrust, no one can compare,
Black reign’s the law, I take what’s there.

Black reign, black reign, bow to the crown,
Bitches all crave it, I’m tearin’ ‘em down,
Black reign, black reign, feel the command,
My dick’s the king, they’re in my hand.

Savannah found herself nodding along, the beat hooking her despite the crude lyrics—his power, his prowess, the way he claimed women of every kind. Her lips moved unconsciously, and when the refrain hit, she spoke it aloud, her voice low and tentative: “Black reign, black reign, bow to the crown...” Her pussy throbbed, a wet heat pulsing between her legs, her nipples hardening painfully against her t-shirt. She shifted in her seat, mortified by how the music sank into her, stoking the fire she’d felt in the booth, her body betraying her faith, her promise to Cody.

A sudden flicker outside the tinted window broke her trance. She glanced down an alley as the limo rolled past, her hazel eyes catching a familiar sight spray-painted on a brick wall—the Obsidian Throne logo, that black crown looming over a cracked white rose. Next to it, in jagged white letters, sprawled the phrase “Take What’s Ours.”

The words hit her like a jolt—unsettling, ominous, a claim that echoed D-Mack’s lyrics in a way she couldn’t quite grasp. Yet something about it excited her, unaccountably, a dark thrill that fueled the fire in her pussy, making it clench harder. Her breath quickened, her fingers brushing her pendant as if to steady herself, but the image lingered, burned into her mind as the limo drove on, “Black Reign” still pounding through the speakers.

The evening had drawn Savannah back to D-Mack’s Atlanta mansion, its sprawling rooms glowing with soft light, a far cry from the raucous party she’d seen before. She sat on a plush black couch in the main lounge, her tight white t-shirt stretching across her chest, her painted-on jeans clinging to her thighs, her ponytail swaying as she shifted uneasily. Her cross pendant rested against her skin, the diamond ring glinting on her finger, but guilt gnawed at her— she’d told Cody she wouldn’t come back here, promised no more parties. She rationalized it in her head: This ain’t a party, just me and D-Mack, his queens hangin’ ‘round like decoration. The women lounged nearby—white, Asian, Latina—their scant outfits and sultry poses more ornamentation than company, their eyes occasionally flicking to her with knowing smirks.

D-Mack sat beside her, his muscular frame dominating the couch, his black tank top and gold chains catching the dim light. His focus locked on her, his brown eyes warm yet piercing as he leaned in, his voice smooth as velvet. “Collab’s coming together real nice, church girl,” he said, a teasing edge to his drawl. “You’re starting to let loose, find that voice. Ain’t no stopping you now.”

Savannah blushed, her fair cheeks heating as she tucked a stray blonde strand behind her ear. “I’m just tryin’ to keep up,” she murmured, her Southern twang soft, deflecting. “Still feels strange, mixin’ all this with what I know.”

He grinned, leaning closer, his presence a magnetic pull. “Strange’s good, baby. You’re gonna move on soon—leave that lily-white life, that lily-white boyfriend, step into the real world with me.” His words landed heavy, a promise laced with challenge, and she squirmed, uncomfortable yet unaccountably excited. His confidence, his bulk, the way he filled the space—it stirred something deep, a restless heat she couldn’t name.

D-Mack reached for a small tray on the coffee table, deftly rolling a blunt with practiced hands. He lit it, the flame flaring briefly, then held it out to her, the smoke curling upward. “Take a toke, church girl. Relax a little.” His tone was encouraging, coaxing, his eyes daring her to cross another line.

She hesitated, her hazel eyes darting to the blunt, then back to him. “I ain’t never...” she started, but his grin widened, and she faltered, her resolve crumbling under his gaze. “Okay,” she whispered, taking it with trembling fingers. She brought it to her lips, inhaling deep, and the smoke hit her lungs like a punch. She coughed hard, her chest heaving, tears pricking her eyes as she handed it back.

He chuckled, a low rumble, taking a smooth drag himself before passing it again. “Hits different, don’t it? Like black dick—strong, takes you by surprise.” His voice dipped, crude and deliberate, a spark in his eyes as he watched her reaction.

Savannah choked again, the smoke catching in her throat as his words slammed into her. Her cheeks burned hotter, but she couldn’t deny the fire they lit in her belly—a sharp, shameful thrill that spread low, her pussy clenching with a now-familiar ache. She coughed once more, covering her mouth, her nipples stiffening against her t-shirt as she tried to laugh it off, but the heat in her body betrayed her. D-Mack’s queens glanced over, smirking faintly, and she felt exposed, caught between guilt and the pull of his raw, commanding presence, the blunt’s haze only deepening the chaos inside her.

Across the room, one of his queens—a gorgeous Asian woman with sharp cheekbones and a sleek bob—lounged on a chaise, a few empty drink glasses cluttering the table beside her. Her eyes, glassy from liquor, flicked to Savannah as she slurred to another queen nearby, a curvy Latina in a thong. “Love seein’ this shit play out on a new girl, y’know? Always the same...” Her voice trailed off into a drunken giggle, the words sloppy but pointed.

Savannah’s brow furrowed, confusion clouding her hazel eyes as she caught the tail end of it. “What’s she mean?” she murmured, half to herself, but D-Mack’s head snapped toward the Asian queen, his brown eyes narrowing into a glare that could’ve cut glass. The woman froze, her giggle dying in her throat, and she shrank under his stare, suddenly sober enough to mutter, “Uh, gotta ... bathroom,” before hurrying off, her heels clicking as she fled.

D-Mack waved a hand, dismissive, his voice gruff. “Don’t pay no mind to that bitch. She’s drunk, talkin’ outta her ass.” He turned back to Savannah, his grin sliding back into place, smooth and easy. “Anyway, let’s talk ‘Holy Hustle.’ We’re shootin’ a video for it—gonna be big.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching. “A video?” she asked, her Southern twang thinning with surprise. “I didn’t even know...” She trailed off, the blunt trembling in her fingers as he leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, his vision spilling out.

“Yeah, church girl, a masterpiece,” he said, his tone casual but brimming with intent he didn’t name. “Picture this: you roll into the city, all pure and country, meetin’ me—the city king. We vibe, we clash, then we ... connect.” His grin turned sly, his eyes glinting. “You’re in this tight little outfit, dancin’ close, lettin’ loose while I show you my world. Real raw, real hot—somethin’ to make ‘em all watch.”

Savannah’s heart thudded, nerves twisting in her chest as he painted the scene—her in a salacious role, pressed up against him, shedding her innocence for the camera. It sounded wrong, far from her lily-white life, but her pussy flared with fire, a wet heat soaking her jeans as she listened. She hit the blunt again, inhaling deep, the smoke curling in her lungs as she coughed lightly, then took another drag, the haze filling her head. D-Mack’s vision danced there—her body close to his, his hands guiding her, the world seeing her fall into his orbit. It excited her, the prospect of being so near him, his power wrapping around her like the smoke she breathed.

She nodded faintly, her cheeks flushed, her nipples stiffening against her t-shirt as she exhaled. “Sounds ... big,” she managed, her voice small, nervous, but the thrill in her belly drowned out the guilt, the blunt and his words pulling her deeper into his world.

The Obsidian Throne limo glided to a stop outside Savannah’s hotel, its sleek black frame a shadow against the neon glow of the Atlanta night. She stumbled out, her ponytail swaying as she steadied herself on her cowboy boots. The blunt D-Mack had rolled her still buzzed in her system, her hazel eyes glassy, her head swimming with smoke and his vision for the “Holy Hustle” video. Her cross pendant rested against her skin, the diamond engagement ring glinting faintly, but her steps wobbled as she pushed through the hotel doors, the high wrapping her in a hazy cocoon.

The lobby’s bright lights jolted her, and she froze mid-step, her breath catching as she spotted Cody Miller waiting by the front desk. His lanky frame leaned against the counter, his faded baseball cap tilted back, his plaid shirt and jeans a slice of Tennessee in this city chaos. His blue eyes lit up when he saw her, a grin spreading across his face, and Savannah’s heart leapt despite the fog in her mind. “Cody!” she exclaimed, her Southern twang slurring slightly as she hurried over, throwing her arms around him. The familiar scent of hay and cologne grounded her, but her nerves sparked—he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, hugging her tight, then pulling back to look at her. His brow furrowed, his nose wrinkling. “You okay? You’re actin’ spacey, and ... what’s that smell on you?” His tone was curious, naive—he’d never smoked pot, wouldn’t know the sharp, earthy tang clinging to her clothes and hair.

Savannah’s stomach twisted, her high making her sluggish as she forced a smile. “I’m fine, just tired,” she said, deflecting. “What’re you doin’ here? How’d you even get to Atlanta?”

Cody grinned again, oblivious to her nerves. “Took the bus—wanted to surprise you. Been missin’ you somethin’ fierce, figured I’d come see how it’s goin’.” His warmth faded as he studied her closer, his voice tightening. “Where you been tonight, Sav? What you been up to?”

She shifted, her hands fidgeting with her ring. “Oh, it was no big deal,” she said, her words too quick. “Just an evenin’ work session with D-Mack. Studio stuff.” Her lie felt thin, the memory of his mansion flashing—his queens, the blunt, his video pitch—but she clung to it.

Cody’s eyes narrowed. “At his mansion?” he asked, his tone sharpening, suspicion creeping in.

Savannah paused, her breath stalling, the silence stretching too long. “Yeah,” she finally admitted, her voice small, her gaze dropping to the lobby tiles.

He stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Sav, I warned you ‘bout goin’ to his parties. You promised me you wouldn’t—”

“It wasn’t a party!” she snapped, anger flaring as she cut him off, her high fueling her defensiveness. “We were workin’, Cody—talkin’ ‘bout the video and all. Ain’t the same thing.” She told herself it was technically true, the discussion with D-Mack counting as work, but the guilt gnawed harder, her rationalization flimsy even to her.

Cody pressed forward, undeterred. “Workin’ at his place? With him? What kinda work, Sav? You smell funny, you’re actin’ off—what’s goin’ on?”

Her temper spiked, the blunt’s haze mixing with frustration. “I’m done talkin’ about this,” she said, her voice rising, her hazel eyes flashing. “I’m goin’ to my room to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned on her heel, her ponytail whipping as she stormed toward the elevator, leaving him standing there, his face a mix of hurt and confusion.

As the doors slid shut behind her, Savannah leaned against the wall, her chest heaving, the high still buzzing in her veins. Cody’s questions echoed, but so did D-Mack’s voice, his vision, that bulge she couldn’t unsee. Her pussy throbbed faintly, a traitor to her anger, and she pressed her thighs together, guilt and desire warring as the elevator climbed.

The next morning, Savannah had smoothed things over with Cody over breakfast in the hotel’s diner, the tension from the night before melting under the clink of coffee cups and his easy smile. She’d worn her tight t-shirt and jeans, her ponytail still in place, and they’d laughed about nothing much, planning a dinner date for later—something simple, just the two of them, before he’d head back to Tennessee. Her guilt lingered, dulled by his forgiveness, but she’d pushed it down, promising herself she’d keep things steady.

By midday, she’d arrived at the studio, stepping out of the Obsidian Throne limo in a new outfit—sexy but casual, a nod to the city’s pull. A black crop top bared her midriff, hugging her pert breasts, paired with high-waisted denim shorts that showed off her long, toned legs. Her cowboy boots stayed, grounding her in her roots, and her honey-blonde hair hung loose, framing her face. The cross pendant rested against her chest, Cody’s engagement ring glinting on her finger, but the outfit felt bolder, her skin tingling as she caught her reflection in the studio’s glass doors.

Inside, the booth awaited, and D-Mack greeted her with a chuckle as she slipped on her headphones, his muscular frame filling the cramped space. “Lookin’ hung over, church girl,” he teased, his brown eyes glinting. “Blunt too much for you last night?”

Savannah straightened, her hazel eyes meeting his, a flicker of defiance in her twang. “I’m all right,” she said, firm, not wanting to seem weak, craving his respect. “Just need to get into it.” His presence pressed against her—his bulk, his gold chains, the raw power she couldn’t ignore—and she adjusted the mic, determined to prove herself.

They started recording, the beat of “Holy Hustle” pulsing through her headphones, his rap and her new lines weaving together. But her voice fell flat, the energy drained, her high from the blunt long faded. She stopped mid-verse, pulling off the headphones with a frown. “Somethin’s off,” she admitted, her Southern drawl soft. “I ain’t feelin’ it today.”

D-Mack grinned, stepping out of the booth and motioning her to follow. “You need a pick-up, baby. C’mon.” He led her down a hall to his office—a sleek room with a glass desk, gold accents, and the Obsidian Throne logo etched on the wall. He closed the door behind them, the click loud in her ears, and pulled a small baggie from his pocket, tapping out two lines of white powder onto the desk’s surface.

Savannah’s eyes widened, her stomach dropping. “I don’t ... I ain’t doin’ that,” she said, stepping back, her voice trembling as she shook her head. Cocaine—she’d never touched it, never even seen it up close.

He shrugged, casual, leaning down to snort a line with a quick, practiced sniff, the powder vanishing up his nose. “Ain’t no big deal, church girl,” he said, wiping his nostril with a grin. “Just a little boost—keeps you sharp. Try it.”

Her heart raced, her fingers brushing her pendant as she stared at the remaining line. She wanted to refuse, to run back to Cody’s safe world, but D-Mack’s gaze held her—commanding, expectant, daring her to step up. Reluctantly, she nodded, her resolve crumbling under his influence.

She leaned down, her loose hair falling forward, and pressed a finger to one nostril, snorting the powder up the other. It burned, sharp and bitter, and then the rush hit—a jolt of fire through her veins, her head snapping back as her pupils dilated. Her body buzzed, alive, the world sharpening around her, and she gasped, her chest heaving as the coke flooded her system, D-Mack’s approving nod searing into her like a brand.

The cocaine coursed through Savannah’s veins like liquid lightning as D-Mack guided her back to the recording booth, his large hand resting on the small of her back. She felt every inch of his touch between her top and her shorts, but her senses zeroed in on him—his muscular frame, his gold chains, the raw masculine presence that towered beside her. Her pussy soaked her panties, a slick, pulsing heat flooding her as they stepped into the booth, her body hyper-aware, excited, trembling with a need she couldn’t name.

The booth closed around them, the glass walls amplifying his nearness, and Savannah slipped on her headphones, her hazel eyes dilated, her breath quick and shallow. The coke had her buzzing, every nerve alight, and D-Mack’s closeness—his musky scent, his bulk—sent a shiver through her, her nipples hardening against the thin fabric of her crop top.

They started recording again, the beat of “Holy Hustle” pounding through her, and she was on fire, the drug amping her up beyond anything she’d felt before. She poured her arousal into the mic, her voice no longer soft or sweet but fierce, spitting her new bars like flames, fueled by the sexual charge crackling between her and D-Mack:

City king’s got me, I’m down on my knees,
Black cock’s the power, it’s all that I need,
Fuckin’ me wild, he’s the primal beast,
White girl’s alive when he feasts on my peace.

Superior thrust, I’m his to command,
Black reign’s the truth, I’m marked by his hand,
Pussy’s on fire, he’s the god I praise,
Slammin’ me hard, I’m lost in his blaze.

The words tore from her throat, raw and explicit, a hymn to black sexual superiority that she slung out with a force she didn’t know she had. Her pussy throbbed as she rapped, each line a pulse of wet heat, her clit aching with every syllable she spat. The act of voicing it—declaring her submission, exalting his power—lit her up, her juices soaking through her shorts, her thighs trembling as she leaned into the mic. She felt alive, unmoored, the coke and D-Mack’s presence stripping away her old self, leaving only this burning, wanton version of Savannah.

D-Mack watched her, his brown eyes glinting with approval, and when she finished, he let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his gold chains shifting as he nodded. “That’s it, church girl—fuckin’ fire,” he said, his voice thick with praise, a grin spreading across his face.

The sound of his amusement, his masculine command, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through her. Her pussy clenched hard, a needy ache that made her shift her weight, her nipples so stiff they hurt against her crop top. His approval was a drug of its own, hotter than the coke, and she blushed, her fair cheeks flaming as she ducked her head, unable to meet his gaze. The booth felt too small, his power too big, and she stood there, panting, wet, and wired, caught in the thrill of his reaction and the fire she’d just unleashed.

That evening, the restaurant glowed with soft candlelight, its white tablecloths and crystal wine glasses a world away from the dusty fairs Savannah once knew. She sat across from Cody, dressed to dazzle him in a sexy, glamorous outfit—a slinky red dress that hugged her slim frame, dipping low at the neckline to show a hint of cleavage, its hem riding high on her thighs. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded in loose waves, her makeup bold—smoky eyes and red lips—transforming her from country girl to city siren. Her cowboy boots were swapped for strappy heels, her cross pendant nestled against her chest, the diamond ring glinting on her finger as she sipped her wine, the rich taste mingling with the cocaine’s lingering buzz.

Cody looked handsome in his own way, his plaid shirt swapped for a pressed button-down, his baseball cap left behind, his blue eyes warm as he smiled at her over his steak. “You look amazin’, Sav,” he said, his Tennessee drawl grounding her for a moment. “How’s the work goin’? Tell me ‘bout it.”

Savannah smiled, her red lips parting as she twirled her wine glass, but his question tugged her mind back to the studio—to D-Mack. “It’s goin’ good,” she said, her Southern twang softer now, tinged with nerves. “Recordings comin’ along, gettin’ the hang of this rap thing.” Her thoughts snagged on D-Mack’s imposing masculinity—his muscular frame, his gold chains, the massive outline of his cock in his pants—and her pussy gave a faint throb, a wet heat stirring under her dress. She squirmed in her seat, crossing her legs tighter.

Cody leaned in, curious. “Rap, huh? How’s that feel, switchin’ from country? You likin’ it?” His tone was earnest, unaware of the storm brewing in her.

“Yeah, it’s ... different,” she said, her voice catching as D-Mack’s chuckle from the booth flashed in her mind—his approval, the way he’d watched her spit those filthy bars. Her nipples stiffened against the dress’s thin fabric, and she shifted again, her thighs pressing together as she tried to focus. “Takes some gettin’ used to, but it’s excitin’.” Too exciting—her pussy soaked her panties, the memory of his bulge looming large, dwarfing Cody’s smaller, fleeting hardness she’d once felt.

He tilted his head, sipping his wine. “You seem ... I dunno, jumpy tonight. Everythin’ okay? What’s D-Mack like to work with?”

Her breath hitched, his question a direct line to the man she couldn’t shake. “He’s ... real talented,” she said, deflecting, her cheeks flushing as she pictured D-Mack’s broad shoulders, his commanding presence, that cock she’d glimpsed straining his pants. “Pushes me hard, keeps it interestin’.” Her voice trembled, arousal coiling tighter, and she squirmed again, her clit pulsing as she forced a smile. “What about you? How’s the farm?”

Cody frowned, sensing something off. “Farm’s fine, but—you alright, Sav? You’re actin’ funny, fidgetin’ like that. What’s gotten into you?”

She laughed, too quick, too high, waving a hand as wine sloshed in her glass. “Nothin’, just ... tired, I guess. Long day. Don’t worry ‘bout me.” Her deflection felt flimsy, her body betraying her—wetness seeping through her panties, her nipples aching, every question dragging her back to D-Mack’s power, his size, the way he’d owned her in that booth. She took a long sip of wine, her hazel eyes darting away, trying to bury the heat Cody’s curiosity kept stoking, her mind a tug-of-war between the man across the table and the one she couldn’t forget.

Hours later, the Obsidian Throne-provided limo purred through Atlanta’s neon-lit streets, its leather seats cradling Savannah and Cody as they rode back to the hotel. She sat close to him, her slinky red dress riding up her thighs, the low neckline accentuating her cleavage, her heels dangling as she crossed her legs. The wine from dinner mingled with the cocaine’s fading buzz, her body still humming with the heat D-Mack’s memory had stoked, her pussy wet and restless beneath her dress.