Chapter 4

The dimly lit restaurant buzzed softly as Savannah slid into the booth across from Cody, her newly dyed platinum-blonde hair catching the light like a neon sign. It hung loose and straight, a stark shift from her natural honey-blonde, framing her face with an edgy, urban vibe. She wore a slutty outfit fresh from the “Holy Hustle” video shoot—a red leather bralette that barely covered her tits, a black pleather mini-skirt hugging her hips, thigh-high suede boots, and bold makeup: dark smoky eyes, glossy red lips. The cocaine vial necklace dangled between her breasts, the diamond ring glinted on her finger—her only tie to Cody now a cold, ironic accessory. She leaned back, smirking, as Cody stared, his blue eyes wide with shock, his plaid shirt and jeans a relic of their shared past.

“Dyed it for the ‘Holy Hustle’ video,” she said, her Southern twang sharp and casual as she flicked her hair. “What d’you think? Kinda diggin’ it—might keep it.” She cocked her head, fishing for his reaction, her hazel eyes glinting with defiance.

Cody shifted, his jaw tight, deflecting. “It’s ... interesting,” he said, his drawl soft but strained, his gaze flickering over her outfit, her hair, clearly unsettled.

Savannah snorted, rolling her eyes. “Fucking ‘interesting’—real bold take, Cody. I can do what I want with my damn hair, y’know. D-Mack likes it—says it’s hot as shit.” She smirked, dropping D-Mack’s name like a jab, watching Cody’s face tighten further.

He tried to steer the conversation, asking about her day, but she cut him off, her resentment bubbling over, her voice rising as she vented. Inside, her thoughts churned—how she’d waited so fuckin’ long for his pathetic little white cock, years wasted when she could’ve been gettin’ reamed by hung black thugs like D-Mack, Levon, Natrone, all of them. Her pussy tingled at the memory of the party, their cum still a phantom heat on her skin, and she clenched her thighs under the table, annoyed at Cody’s cluelessness.

“I’m recordin’ some demos—new tracks,” she said, her tone taunting as she leaned forward, her bralette straining. “Got some dope shit lined up: ‘Country Girl Gone Wild,’ ‘Black Owned,’ ‘White Girl Woke’—real hot, urban vibes, all ‘bout that black male sexuality, y’know?” She grinned, listing the titles with relish, each one a dagger aimed at his troubled reactions—his brow furrowing, his mouth thinning. “They’re gonna fuckin’ slay—D-Mack’s crew can’t get enough. Wish you weren’t so damn insecure ‘bout it, Cody—kinda pathetic.”

He flinched, his fork pausing mid-air, hurt flashing in his eyes. “I ain’t insecure, Sav—I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” he said, his voice low, pleading. “This ain’t the girl I—”

“Save it,” she snapped, cutting him off, her resentment simmering hotter. “I’m done bein’ that girl—done with your small-town bullshit.” She took a sip of her wine, her red lips staining the glass, her mind drifting to D-Mack’s cock pounding her, the gangbang’s raw chaos, how Cody’s fumbling could never compare. She smirked faintly, enjoying his discomfort, her annoyance at his presence—at everything he represented—hardening into a bitter edge as he sat there, still trying to reach a Savannah who no longer existed.

The trendy Atlanta nightclub throbbed with energy as the premiere party for the “Holy Hustle” video kicked into high gear, the track already climbing the charts, its raw appeal hooking young rural white women—Savannah’s core demographic—hungry for rebellion. The room buzzed with music industry suits in sharp blazers, D-Mack’s crew in gold chains and street gear, and his queens strutting in barely-there outfits, their heels clicking on the polished floor. Neon lights pulsed overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the crowd, the air thick with weed smoke, champagne fizz, and anticipation.

Savannah perched on D-Mack’s lap at the center of the VIP section, her slutty outfit a fresh twist from nights before—a silver metallic crop top that clung to her tits like liquid, leaving her midriff bare, paired with a black latex skirt so short it barely covered her ass, fishnet stockings ripped at the thighs, and platform ankle boots. Her platinum-blonde hair fell in sleek waves, her makeup fierce—black winged eyeliner, glossy pink lips—her cocaine vial necklace glinting between her breasts, the diamond ring a faint echo on her finger. She pressed herself against D-Mack, his muscular frame sprawled on a velvet couch, his tank top stretched tight, his massive cockbulge nudging her ass through his pants.

The DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers—”Y’all ready for this? ‘Holy Hustle’ video premiere—let’s go!”—and the crowd erupted, heads turning to the large screen dominating the wall. Savannah grinned, her hazel eyes glinting as she started grinding her ass against D-Mack’s bulge to the beat, slow and deliberate, her pussy tingling as the video began.

The screen flickered to life with the first scene: Savannah kneeling at an altar in a sunlit Tennessee church, wooden pews and stained glass framing her piety. Her honey-blonde hair was tied in a neat bun, a modest white dress flowed to her ankles, a cross pendant gleamed at her neck. Her hands clasped in prayer, her face serene, eyes closed—she embodied purity, a preacher’s daughter untouched by the world. The crowd murmured, some chuckling at the contrast to the woman now writhing on D-Mack’s lap.

The scene shifted abruptly to D-Mack commanding a neon-lit Atlanta nightclub stage, shirtless, sweat glistening on his chiseled torso, gold chains swinging as he moved. Women—white, Asian, Latina—ground against him, their hands roaming his body, but his smirk and piercing gaze owned the frame, exuding raw masculinity. The trap beat kicked in hard. Off the screen, in the club, Savannah’s grinding intensified, her latex skirt riding up as she pressed harder against D-Mack, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm.

Next on the screen came their encounter: Savannah stepping hesitantly into the nightclub’s VIP section, still in her white dress, her eyes wide with fear and fascination. D-Mack beckoned her with a single finger, the crowd parting as she approached. His large hand swallowed hers, the camera zooming in on their contact—his touch firm, her body trembling. He leaned down, whispering in her ear, his lips grazing her skin, and her breath quickened, her cross pendant catching the red light as her resolve cracked. In the club, Savannah moaned softly, her pussy soaking her skirt as she relived that moment, D-Mack’s real-time grip tightening, his breath hot on her neck mirroring the screen.

The crowd cheered, bottles clinking, as the video promised more—her transformation just beginning. Savannah smirked, loving the attention, her body buzzing with the high of the charts, the party, and D-Mack’s dominance, her old self onscreen a distant memory she’d long since shed. D-Mack’s hands gripped her tighter, his gold chains brushing her back, his breath a low growl in her ear as the screen flashed to the next scene.

The video cut to quick shots of Savannah’s transformation—her gradual surrender unfolding in a blur of settings. First, the nightclub: her white dress shortened to mid-thigh, her honey-blonde hair falling loose in waves as she danced tentatively. Then a luxury penthouse: she wore a tight crop top and mini skirt, her hair now platinum-blonde, makeup bold—dark eyeliner, red lips—her hips swaying with growing confidence. Finally, the recording studio: she strutted in lingerie and heels, rapping into the mic, D-Mack behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his hands guiding her, his breath hot on her neck as their bodies pressed close. The crowd hooted, some queens smirking knowingly, industry suits nodding at the slick production. Savannah’s pussy throbbed, her grinding intensifying as she relived D-Mack’s real-life touch shaping her into this new self.

Next came the symbolic imagery—a candlelit room with dark velvet drapes. Onscreen, Savannah knelt before D-Mack in a sheer black robe, her cross pendant gone, replaced by a choker with a black crown charm. Her hands rested on his thighs, her platinum-blonde hair framing her worshipful gaze as she stared at the massive outline of his cock through his pants. A Bible flipped open to reveal “Holy Hustle” lyrics, a wall-mounted cross morphed into a phallic shape, and the camera lingered on her awestruck face. The room erupted—D-Mack’s crew cheering, “That’s my boy!” while the queens clapped, and a few suits shifted uncomfortably at the blatant symbolism. Savannah moaned softly, her clit pulsing as she pressed harder against D-Mack, his hand sliding under her skirt, squeezing her ass, the video mirroring her real devotion to his black dominance.

The group scene followed: D-Mack sat on a throne-like chair on the nightclub dance floor, his crew and harem of women surrounding him. Savannah danced provocatively before him, her body rolling to the beat in lingerie, platinum hair whipping as other women vied for his attention. He ignored them, his brown eyes locking on her, then stood, pulling her onto his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh possessively. She gasped onscreen, her fingers gripping his shoulders as she straddled him, the camera blurring the background to focus on her submission. In the club, the crowd roared, bottles clinking, chants of “D-Mack! D-Mack!” rising. Savannah’s breath hitched, her pussy soaking her skirt as she mirrored the pose now, straddling D-Mack’s lap, his real hand creeping higher, his cockbulge grinding against her as she lost herself in the video’s power and his touch.

The screen faded to black for a moment, the beat still thumping, and Savannah grinned, her body buzzing with the high of the premiere, the chart success, and D-Mack’s dominance—both onscreen and beneath her. The crowd’s energy fed her, her transformation a public triumph she owned completely.

The nightclub’s massive screen flared back to life as the “Holy Hustle” video surged into its final scenes, the trap beat pounding harder, syncing with Savannah’s grinding on D-Mack’s lap. Her silver metallic crop top gleamed under the neon lights, her black latex skirt bunched around her hips, fishnet stockings shredded, platform boots digging into the couch. Her platinum-blonde hair whipped as she moved, the cocaine vial necklace swung between her tits, the diamond ring a faint glimmer on her finger. D-Mack’s hands roamed her body, his cockbulge pressing against her ass, his gold chains brushing her skin as they watched her transformation unfold.

The climax hit: a rooftop overlooking the Atlanta skyline at night, city lights twinkling below. Onscreen, Savannah stood on the edge in a barely-there bikini and thigh-high boots, her platinum hair catching the wind. D-Mack approached from behind, his muscular arms encircling her waist, lips brushing her neck. She turned, dropping to her knees, her hands sliding up his legs, revealing a fresh tattoo on her neck—a black crown above a broken white rose. In real life, she traced that same tattoo with her fingers, a permanent mark she’d gotten days ago, loving its weight as a symbol of her devotion to black masculinity. His hand rested on her head, a silent claim, and she gazed up at him with total devotion, her transformation complete. The crowd whistled, D-Mack’s crew shouting, “That’s my girl!” as Savannah’s pussy throbbed, her grinding slowing to a sensual roll, basking in the moment.

The final scene sealed it: the same rural Tennessee church, now empty and dimly lit. Onscreen, Savannah stood at the altar in a leather corset, garters, and heels, her platinum hair wild, lips dark with lipstick. She held her old cross pendant—her last tie to piety—then dropped it, the metal clinking on the floor as she stepped over it, strutting out. Outside, D-Mack waited in a black SUV, his smirk beckoning. She climbed in, and they drove off, city lights engulfing them. The closing shot lingered: the broken pendant on the church floor, the cross above casting a phallic shadow as the music faded. Savannah grinned, her real-time body pressed tight against D-Mack, her clit pulsing as the video’s message sank in—she was his, reborn.

Raucous cheers erupted in the club as the screen went black, the crowd exploding—D-Mack’s crew pounding fists, queens clapping, industry figures nodding in approval. “Fuckin’ fire!” someone yelled, bottles clinking as the room buzzed. People swarmed them, hands clapping D-Mack’s shoulders, voices congratulating Savannah—”You killed it, girl!” Record execs in sharp suits pushed through, excitement gleaming in their eyes. “That’s a hit—y’all gotta do more collabs,” one said, scribbling notes. “Whole album, pronto,” another chimed in, shaking D-Mack’s hand. Savannah beamed, her pussy still tingling, loving the validation, the power of their vision taking hold.

A pop-culture magazine reporter—a sleek woman with a recorder—edged closer, her smile sharp. “Savannah, D-Mack—huge congrats! How about a feature spread? The world’s dying to know more about this vibe.” Savannah nodded eagerly, her platinum hair catching the light. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it,” she said, her twang rough and proud, leaning into D-Mack’s chest as he chuckled, his arm tightening around her. She basked in it all—the fame, her new identity, the thrill of being a role model for young white women, showing them a path from piety to power, from small-town cages to the wild freedom she’d claimed. The club pulsed around her, a kingdom she’d conquered, and she knew this was just the beginning.

The Obsidian Throne limo glided through Atlanta’s neon-lit streets, the premiere party’s chaos fading behind them as Savannah and D-Mack tangled in the backseat, the leather cool against their heated skin. Her silver metallic crop top hung askew, one tit spilling out, her black latex skirt hiked up to her waist, fishnet stockings torn, platform boots scuffing the floor. Her platinum-blonde hair clung to her sweaty neck, the cocaine vial necklace—empty now—swung between her breasts, the diamond ring a faint glint on her finger. D-Mack’s tank top was off, his chiseled chest and abs bare, gold chains gleaming as he pulled her close, their mouths crashing together in a hungry, sloppy kiss.

Savannah groped his muscular arms, her nails digging in as his hands roamed her body, squeezing her ass through the latex, pawing at her tits. She broke the kiss, giggling breathlessly, and grabbed a small baggie of coke from her skirt pocket—her new stash since the vial ran dry. “Fuckin’ watch this,” she said, her twang rough and nasty, pouring a thin line of the white powder onto her exposed tits. She moaned as D-Mack dove in, snorting it up with a grunt, his nose brushing her nipple before his mouth latched on, sucking hard. His hands squeezed her tits, kneading them roughly, then slid down to grip her ass, pulling her tighter against him as he kissed her again, his tongue thrusting deep, tasting of coke and lust.

She slid her face down his bare chest, licking the sweat off his chiseled abs, her hands fumbling with his pants. She unzipped them, yanking them down, and his massive black cock sprang free—eleven inches, veiny, rock-hard. “Fuck yeah,” she muttered, dribbling a line of coke along its thick shaft, the powder stark against his dark skin. She snorted it up eagerly, the burn hitting her fast, her eyes watering as she giggled, then wrapped her glossy pink lips around him, sucking deep. Her head bobbed, taking him to her throat, gagging slightly but loving it, her pussy soaking the limo seat as she worked him with sloppy, desperate hunger.

D-Mack groaned, his hand tangling in her platinum hair, guiding her pace. “Fuck, baby—you’re killin’ it,” he praised, his voice a low rumble. “So proud of you, church girl—fuckin’ role model for good white girls everywhere, showin’ ‘em how it’s done.” His words sank into her, stoking her pride, her clit throbbing as she sucked harder, spit dripping down his shaft.

She popped his cock out of her mouth with a wet smack, grinning up at him, her lipstick smeared, her face flushed. “Damn fuckin’ right—those prissy white bitches need to learn the power of black cock,” she said, her twang thick with expletives, her voice raw and nasty. “Ain’t no goin’ back once you get this shit—fuckin’ owns you.” She spat on his cock, stroking it with her hand before diving back in, sucking deeper, her foul-mouthed glee spilling out between moans as she worshipped him, her body trembling with the high of the coke, the sex, and the night’s triumph.

D-Mack chuckled, leaning back, his hand resting on her head as the limo rolled on, the city lights flashing past. Savannah was his—fully, unapologetically—and she reveled in it, her nasty talk and eager mouth a testament to the role she’d claimed, the power she’d embraced, the white girls she’d lead into this wild, black-dominated world. D-Mack groaned, his hand tightening in her hair, his gold chains swaying as he tensed. “Fuck—take it, baby,” he growled, and came hard, his thick, hot load flooding her mouth.

Savannah swallowed eagerly, gulping it down without a drop spilling, her throat working as she proved she could handle a black stud’s cum like a pro. She pulled off with a triumphant grin, wiping her glossy pink lips, her hazel eyes glinting with pride. D-Mack leaned back, smirking, his brown eyes raking over her. “Damn, church girl—impressed as fuck with them skills,” he said, his voice a low rumble of approval.

She laughed, a rough, nasty sound, and started bragging, her twang dripping with expletives. “Fuckin’ right you’re impressed—I’m a goddamn queen at handlin’ black cock, ain’t nobody suckin’ dick like me. This mouth’s a fuckin’ black-cock paradise—swallowin’ loads like it’s water, makin’ studs cum so hard they see stars. And my pussy? Shit, it’s a tight little white-slut dream, grippin’ that big black meat like a vise, milkin’ it dry every damn time. Been fuckin’ perfectin’ these skills—ain’t no white bitch out there takin’ it like me, I’m the nastiest hoe you’ll ever fuck!” Her voice rose, boastful and proud, her body buzzing with cocaine and lust.

D-Mack chuckled, his hands grabbing her roughly, manhandling her onto her back across the limo seat. She squealed, her legs spreading wide as he slid his still-hard cock inside her, slamming into her tight, quivering pussy with a single powerful thrust. “Oh fuck—yes!” she screamed, her body shaking as he fucked her hard, his hips pounding, his eleven-inch length stretching her wide. Her tits bounced free of the crop top, her latex skirt rode up to her stomach, her fishnets tore further as she writhed under him, moaning loud and vocal now—every black stud’s fuck unleashing her voice.

“Fuck me, D-Mack—pound that shit harder, you fuckin’ god!” she yelled, her profanity-laden encouragement spilling out. “Goddamn, you’re an awesome fuck—best black cock I ever had, fuckin’ tearin’ me up! Gimme that shit, stud—make me shake, make me fuckin’ scream!”

Her hands clawed at his back, her nails digging into his skin as he pounded her pussy harder, the limo rocking faintly with his force. Her body trembled, her platinum hair splayed across the leather, her pussy gushing wet around him as she writhed, her moans turning to shrieks. “Fuck yes—own this white pussy, you badass motherfucker—nobody fucks like you!”

D-Mack growled, his hands gripping her hips, his thrusts brutal and relentless, making her tits jiggle, her whole frame quake under his power. Savannah’s vocal filth fueled him, her boasts and curses a soundtrack to her submission, her body a willing canvas for his dominance as the limo rolled on, the city lights blurring past their raw, unbridled lust.

His eleven-inch black cock slammed into her, his gold chains swaying, his hands gripping her hips as he fucked her hard, her shrieks filling the air. “Fuck yes—gimme that shit, D-Mack—pound me fuckin’ harder!” she yelled, her twang raw and nasty, urging him on.