1) This story contains harsh, non-consensual sex. It also plays with race and racial stereotypes. If these elements are not to your liking, please choose a different story.

2) It is a work of sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

3) I appreciate receiving positive comments, as well as constructive criticism. I hope you enjoy it.

Interviewer: Looking back over your career, is there any one moment that you feel set you on the path to celebrity?

K. Jeffords: One key moment, huh? Yeah, I reckon I can guess what ‘moment’ you’re angling for. You know, before I agreed to this interview, we stipulated that anything prior to my first recording contract was off-limits. By rights, I ought to just get up and walk out of here. But I’m feeling generous, and a little nostalgic, so I think I’m gonna spin the whole tale out for you. I haven’t ever given a reporter my take on it before, see? I only hope you remember to show some appreciation when you write up your piece.

You may want to settle back in your seat, though—if I’m going to tell it, then I’m going to do it right and take my time about it. So, you know, I will get around to the ‘main event’ in due course. But really, the story begins a couple of nights prior to that. That’s when the whole thing got set in motion.

On that particular evening, I’d arranged to meet my brother Darius at some bar, right? And just as soon as I arrived at the joint, I caught sight of D, sitting over across the room. But that place was packed solid, so I had to wade through the crowd towards him. And when I was still only about halfway there, I got hung up by some white chick. She was gabbing with her girlfriends at a table, you know, and made some big gesture with her arms just I was edging by, and bam! Her beer mug slapped up against my midsection, and sloshed suds all down my front.

Now, let’s just say, this chick may not have been exactly my type, but she was still mighty fine. Sorority gal—long, wavy blonde hair, creamy skin, turned-up nose. A little bitty thing, maybe 5’1”, and skinnier than I like ‘em, but, mmm ... the way she packed herself into those skin-tight jeans and size-too-small t-shirt. Nipples visible clear as day.

Yup, nice lines top-to-bottom. I wouldn’t have minded getting an apology from her, but that wasn’t happening. Instead, her eyes flashed, ice-cold, and I almost thought she was gonna bite me. “Watch it, prick!” she snarled. “You fucking spilled my beer!” Her voice was thick, so I guessed she was well on her way to getting buzzed.

I wasn’t looking for any trouble, so I just shrugged. “Sorry miss,” I mumbled, and took off. Pussy move I know. But look: history says it usually doesn’t go well for the black guy who gets into it with a white woman. Sometimes you have to remind yourself it’s whitey’s world, and you just live in it.

She had pretty much that same idea as well. As I walked away, I heard her voice behind me—clear and distinct, so I couldn’t miss it. “Fucking nig, who does he think he is?” Lord knows, I was boiling (and I may perhaps have muttered ‘cunt!’ under my breath), but I just kept on walking. Nothing good would have come from turning round.

Once I finally sat down across from Darius, he went and had a good laugh at my expense. “Fuck, little brother,” he snickered, pointing to my beer-stains, “you so nervous about the big game that you’re pissing yourself?”

I was still too hot about the other thing to laugh along. “Fuck you, man! ... Anyways, are you even allowed to talk to me? Isn’t it a ‘conflict of interest’ or something?”

We were both in town for the Super-America Conference hoops tourney. I was starting power-forward for City U., as I guess you’re aware, and he had some gig with the conference administration. Media or PR or something of that sort.

Well, D responded to my lame question with a snort, and a grin that said I was a grade-A imbecile. “All I’m doing is having a chat with my little brother—isn’t any law against that.”

My man was fronting and shit-talking in a way that seemed usual enough; but behind it I could tell he was tense—and that amped up my tension level too. “So? What the hell are we chatting about then? You’re the one who called me, remember?”

His smile faded real quick, turning into more of a frown. “To put it plainly, Keon, this tournament is a disaster. Whitmeyer is fucking killing me!”

Now, if you aren’t from around here, then let’s just say that when it comes to sports, Whitmeyer College is the butt of pretty much every joke going. They’re the token ‘academic school’ in the conference. Usually end up going 3-30 or some shit like that. I mean, I suppose they’re alright at lacrosse and golf and that rich-kid shit—but they can’t play real sports for beans.

Only this particular year something funny had happened. Somehow those crackers put together a mighty good hoops team. Hung with us all season, split our home-and-home (first time we lost a game to ‘em in 15 years), and ended up tied atop the standings.

Well, one way or another, that logjam was going to get broken at the tourney. We’d made it to the final round, and so had they, and now the conference championship was just a couple of nights away. One last showdown for all the marbles—bragging rights, some big-ass trophy, and that golden ticket to the NCAAs. I had no doubt we were going to whip their asses.

I couldn’t see what Darius was on about though. “Why do you give a shit about those Whitmeyer stiffs, bro? What are they to you?”

“The thing is,” he said, “we were counting on having City U. and Upstate A&M in the championship. You know the winnebagos would already be lining up for that one. Instead these Whitmeyer wanna-be’s snuck in. They only have like 200 living alums, and as for fans, they got zero. Plus, no one wants to see them play four-corners for 40 minutes. Now I’m getting heat for an empty arena. Not only that, the network’s talking about renegotiating the contract, and the powers-that-be are trying to finger me for it. If things don’t change, they’re going to fire my ass. Scapegoat me, if you see what I mean.”

That made me worry too. Momma needed the money D sent home every month. “Fuck, man, that isn’t right. So, what are you gonna do about it?”

“We’ll get to that. But first, Keon, I want you to be real with me for a minute. What are you going to do when the season’s over? Do you have a plan?”

Ooh, that hit a nerve. See, I’d been working real hard at not thinking about my future. Back when I was conference freshman of the year, the agents all said I’d be a sure-fire lottery pick. But then came the injuries, and the surgeries, and after a while the agents quit coming around. Coach said I’d lost that special something—that extra step, that explosiveness. I’d reinvented myself as a blue-collar bruiser, but that was at City U. The NBA didn’t have any use for damaged goods like me.

And heaven knows I was never going to make it as some hype-slinging, code-switching, white-collar hustler like my brother. So, here I was, eligibility about up, 50 credits short of a degree in ‘communications,’ and looking forward to a whole lot of nothing. Not a pretty picture.

“I dunno Darius,” I blustered. “I’ll do whatever I want to do. Maybe play in Europe, or the ABA. Play my way back into the bigtime. You’ll see.”

The man gave me a look he must have cribbed from momma. “Don’t bullshit your kin. It doesn’t matter how many points you score in Greece or whatever—you know the NBA isn’t ever going to give you the time of day.”

“Fuuuuuuck, bro, that’s harsh. Well, then I’ll go in on the rap career fulltime. I’ve got producers calling, you know? They say my demo’s for real.”

He eyed me appraisingly. “You’re a big teddy bear, Keon. It isn’t going to be easy to brand you as a gangsta’. But, you do have talent ... The thing is, man, the music biz is tough. It’s a grind. And you have to get publicity—you have to get your name out there. Otherwise you’re just nobody.”

I laughed. “What the fuck are you saying? Are you gonna be my manager? Is that gonna be your new gig when the boss cans your ass?”

Darius smiled; but it was a damn cold smile. “Nah. But I do have an idea how we could help each other out. Tell me: that girl you had a run in with, back there. How’d you like to tap that pussy?”

That made me laugh even harder. “Bro, I don’t think she’s in the market for dick of my particular skin-tone and ‘socio-economic background!’ I mean, back when I was NBA material, sure. But I quit getting pussy like that right about the second time they cleaned out my knee.”

I guessed he was just shooting the shit, but my man’s eyes looked in deadly earnest. “And what about fucking her in front of a crowd? I’m talking about fifty-fucking-thousand people? Do you have that in you?”

Now I was starting to think my big brother was looney-toons. “What kind of garbage are you talking, D? Nobody ever fucks a girl in front of fifty thousand people. It just doesn’t happen!”

“Not until now, maybe. Here’s what I’m thinking. You need to make a splash—get yourself known as some alpha-dog badass. You need to do something insane, something everyone will remember. If you can do that, then you can punch your ticket as a rapper. And as for me, well, I just need to fill those seats. So, I’m thinking we should arrange some kind of ‘viral event’ that will serve both our needs. Specifically, an event that involves you dicking down that flower of femininity over there, in front of a sold-out basketball crowd.”

“Man, you are fucking insane. This is America. You can’t just do that kind of shit, you know? You’re gonna get us both out on our asses, and most likely in prison to boot.”

Darius grinned at me like I was sucker. “Open your eyes, Keon. This isn’t momma’s ‘moral-majority’ country anymore. More like porn-central. They may not say it openly, but you can bet those suits in the boardroom don’t care how we make the money, they just care that it gets made. So—all I need to do is grease a few palms and publicize it on the downlow. It absolutely could work. Why, I bet coach would even let you play in the NCAAs afterward. Do you really think he’s going to sit your 14 rebounds down on the bench when his own contract is coming due?”

I nodded towards the tight t-shirt sorority sister in question. “Ok, let’s say you right. Still, you know that kind of tail would never go for it. She may be partying tonight, but just look at her: you can see she’s got money, class. She isn’t about to humiliate herself that way, man. You need a skank for that sort of shit.”

“Wrong, son. A skank isn’t going to cut it—not for what I have in mind. A high-class girl is exactly what we need to get the buzz. Do you know what all those good-and-proper folks out there really want to see? Deep down? They want to see the captain of the Whitmeyer cheer team getting railed by some big-dicked brother. Well—here you are. And guess what?” Darius cocked an eyebrow toward the blonde. “There she is.”

“Are you serious man?!” I glanced over, trying to imagine the bitch in a cheerleader skirt ... Holy hell! It was her. I’d seen her at games.

I looked back at my brother. “Alright, that just means she’s even less likely to go for it.”

“Well sure, not if we just walk up and say ‘hey sugar, would you mind ever so much if old Keon here fucked you in front of fifty thousand people?’ Naw, we have to maneuver her into it, see? Play the finesse game, get in her head. I’ve got it all figured out.” He glanced around. “Where’s Rita? You brought her, right?”

“Man, I’m not that girl’s keeper. But yeah, she must be around here somewhere.”

“Good, we’re going to need her. You two getting along right now?”

So, we put our heads together to hash it all out. Darius told me the cheerleader’s name was Christine Ridgemont. She came from some big-money family in the county, you know? I kept an eye on old Christine as we were talking, and it didn’t take long before she moved on from beer to shots. The bitch could hold her liquor, no doubt. Even so, by the time we were ready to make our move, she and her pals were getting pretty damn wasted.

Oh, and one other thing, It turned out she was dating the star point guard of the Whitmeyer team, a kid named Bobby Reilly. I knew that little shit’s name without being told—he’d lit us up for 11 treys the last time we’d played ‘em.

In fact, those two were for real, I gather. Engaged and all that. And if you look at the situation as a whole, I suppose you have to say there was a certain symmetry to it. See, Rita was the head of the City U. cheer squad, like Christine was for Whitmeyer. And Rita and I, well we may not have been engaged, but we were still something of a hot item, just like Christine and Bobby. You know, come to think of it, maybe we were what those rich white folk would’ve seen, if they’d been peering into a cracked mirror.

Now Rita, she was just about the most crazy Latina you’d ever want to meet. We dated, like I said, but neither one of us was exclusive. She didn’t care if I spread it around, and I knew she opened her legs to other men from time to time as well. Boy, she did have a temper though. Like, when we got into one of our fights? Hot damn, that thing was bound to be epic. Still, she was more fun than any other girl I knew, and also hotter than hell, and somehow we always ended up back together. Like we were made for each other or something.

Anyways, crazy Rita was all over Darius’ brain-addled scheme when she heard it. Even moreso once she learned what that white bitch had said to me. And me, well, I couldn’t believe I was going along with those two, but what the fuck—I didn’t have much to lose anyhow.

Once we were all clear about who was saying what, Rita pulled me out of my seat and led me over toward Christine and her girlfriends. They were pinked-up good by now, talking a little too loud and swaying just a bit off the vertical axis, if you know what I mean.

Rita was looking to have some fun with this gambit; and in my humble opinion, her performance that night should have won an Oscar.

She started right in on the plan, speaking up loud and strong, directly above Christine’s shoulder. “What’re you worried about, K? You’re gonna sodomize those Whitmeyer fags on Saturday. I bet you’ll beat them by fifty points. They don’t stand a chance playing against real men.”

Oh, did I mention? Rita is just filthy. And she got a rise out of those white chicks with it, no doubt. Those debs didn’t have any experience with a mouth like Rita’s, you know? Why, even from this first jab, I could see that our mark Christine was already starting to get vexed—muscles tensing and ivory skin blushing hot.

Now I kicked in with my supporting role, so Rita had something to play off of. “I don’t know about that, girl. You know their point guard’s a damn good shooter. I’m not sure we got enough to beat him.”

Rita’s reply had scorn written all over it. “Are you kidding me? That pussy Bobby Reilly? He’s got no cojones at all. He’s like a little girl down there. I guarantee it: any woman who dates Bobby Reilly needs a strap-on for him, and a vibrator for herself.”

By now, Christine’s temple was pulsating—I mean, you could see it—and she started getting to her feet. Before she could, though, one of her gal-pals put a hand on her arm to hold her back. This other bitch waved for us to scat. “Get the fuck outta here. Whitmeyer’s gonna beat your ass on gameday. Til then just take your sad trash-talk somewhere we can’t hear it.”

Well, this just played into Rita’s hands. She walked right over, and swear-to-god she flicked this other white ho in the forehead! “We aren’t scared of you, gringa. We’ll talk about your pansy-ass team wherever we want. And when your boys take it up the ass on Saturday, I’ll be there handing out vaseline!”

This brought Christine out of her chair straight away—wavering slightly on her wobbly legs and glaring daggers at us. I took Rita’s elbow, lightly. “C’mon girl, leave it be. Let’s just see how it comes out on the court. Might go either way...”

Right about then, Christine must have recognized us, and her anger got derailed for a second. “Hey, I knnow you two,” she said, eyes working hard to focus. “City U., right? Wellll lookhere chica, you really oughta listen to what your man’s saying. He doesn’t sound so c-confident about going up against my Bobby, now does he?”

Rita chortled, pretending to be surprised. “Oh you’re with Bobby Reilly? Oh honey, you have my sympathies! So young to already be coping with the disappointments of erectile dysfunction!”

Christine’s eyes went hot, and the return of her temper made her seem a bit less drunk. Still, she didn’t have anything intelligent to say; just sputtered something along the lines of “Fuck you!” (Though, if I’m being candid, I may have been momentarily distracted by her nipples, which were poking way out under that taut-stretched t-shirt by now.)

Rita only smiled wide. “Darling, by the end of the game, Bobby’s gonna be Keon’s bitch so much he’ll bend over and beg to have that big black dick shoved up his ass.”

That white girl’s face was red as a stop sign, I kid you not. Her friends were standing around her like the offensive line to her quarterback, and we’d begun to draw a pretty fair crowd hoping for a catfight. Still, Rita had some inches on Christine, and was obviously tougher. The little princess wasn’t that drunk, so she decided to stick to her words. “You goddamn fucking piece-of-trash cunt! When I tell Bobby about this he will kill your team. Then you can watch us at the NCAAs on TV!”

That told Rita that the fish was just about hooked. “Eh, those are big words gringa. Do you mean them, or are you just talking smack? What do you say we put a little wager on this game, and just see who’s for real?”

I swear, the thought of money made Christine’s face light up like a Christmas tree. “You’re on, slut. How’s $5,000? Is that real enough for you?”

My gal just laughed. “Now, sweetie, we all know a few G’s doesn’t mean anything to a rich WASP like you. If you really believe in your man, then you need to put something that matters on the line.”

For a few beats, Christine simply stared at her, wary-eyed. Her expression was half ‘what’s your angle?’ and half ‘what else is there besides money?’ At last she spoke. “So what’s your idea, bitch?”

Rita made her voice low and warm and intimate. “Tell you what, honey. If Whitmeyer wins, I will give it up to Bobby. I will spread my legs and let him fuck me, right there in the arena, right there in front of eeeveryone. That will show me for doubting he’s swinging a man’s dick, no? ... But—if City wins, then it goes the other way. Then you have to let Keon show you what you’ve been missing.”

She turned toward the bystanders, speaking louder and flashing a wicked smile. “Well, people, what do you think? This pretty-girl has a big mouth. But does she really trust her man? Enough to bet her pussy on him? No, I don’t think so.”

Christine’s pals had shock written all over their faces, and Christine looked downright queasy. Rita’s proposition had really thrown her for a loop. She stuttered. “No, I-I can’t ... Bobby wouldn’t...”

The onlookers found this hilarious, and jeers and taunts started raining down on Christine. Darius was back there somewhere, and I have no doubt he played a part in riling ‘em up. Rita raised her voice another notch and went right on stoking the crowd. “You see?! The stuck-up bitch knows her man’s gonna lose! She talks a big game, but deep down she knows the truth. Bobby Reilly’s got a vagina where his cock ought to be, and it’s about to get raped by City U.!”

Like I say, she’s filthy, but I guess she calibrated it all about right. Christine’s fragile ego wasn’t used to such treatment, and in the end something must have snapped inside her. Her gals tried to stop her, you know, but she just lost it. “Fuck you, you wetback slut! Fuck you! If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’re gonna get. I’ll take your bet. And when Whitmeyer wins, and Bobby’s screwing you, I hope you’re dry down there!”

It was like watching a runaway train going over a cliff...

Man, that night was insane. Rita and Christine went on negotiating the finer points of the wager for a while, like lawyers or something. Darius videoed the whole dust-up, and I guess other folks did too. And me—I was just like ‘what the fuck are we all doing here?!’

Anyway, by the next morning, that shit was plastered all over the web. My boys on the team were all “what the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck?” and I was all “these hos are just crazy, man.”

Now, I never thought the blasted thing would actually take place. I figured the coaches would sit my ass on the bus, and put a stop to it right there. But they pretended not to know anything about it. Then I thought the refs, or the suits, or the media types would shut us down. Or the cops. But everyone knew what was going on, and not one of them lifted a goddamn finger. Maybe it was all those dollar bills involved, like Darius said. Or maybe they were just excited to see the show.

All I know is, the arena was sold out by noon Friday, and nosebleed tickets were being scalped for $800. Plus, the sports network moved us up from late-night to prime-time, due to ‘increased fan interest’ or some shit. So that was the official line, and they were all sticking to it.

I also figured the girls would chicken out. That is, Christine at least—Rita’s pretty fearless. Well, I daresay the white bitch wanted to bail when she woke up the next morning, sporting a bad hangover and about a million mentions in social media. But by then she was just in too deep. She’d look mighty chickenshit if she reneged, not after all the smack she had talked on video. And, you know, Bobby might have been happy, in some respects, if she backed out; but then ... it’d still have made him wonder what she thought of him, wouldn’t it?

In the end, I guess there wasn’t anything she could do except slap a grin on it and hope old Bobby could save her bacon.

When we came out on the floor for pregame Saturday, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. I was in the Sweet Sixteen once, you know, but it didn’t hold a candle to this. Forget standing-room-only. PetroChem arena was so packed, swear to god, the people were standing on each other’s shoulders. They must have crammed seventy thousand folks into fifty thousand seats. Even when they weren’t clapping or cheering or anything, the random noise coming off all those people was solid. Like, you could just feel it vibrating through your body.

That’s when I judged that this thing might actually be going to happen. I knew why all those folks had showed up; and if they were denied their fun, I expected the scene would get pretty-damn ugly, pretty-damn fast.

The cheer squads were there too, of course, looking as tense as cats in the dog kennel. Even Rita was a little green around the gills, though she was better at hiding it. At one point, when I was taking my shots, she wound up and gave me a big slap on the backside. Like she was reminding me to keep up my end of things, you know? This must have given the nudge to Christine, because then she ran over to embrace the famed Bobby Reilly. The crowd was eating this shit up, I can tell you, and the applause was deafening.

By time we were lining up for opening tip, my heart was pounding like a goddamn sledgehammer. I glanced over to take Reilly’s measure across the court. He was cool and composed, a movie-star looker, and smugger than hell—I guess that about sums it up. Kind of a shrimp too; 6’2” the media guide said, but I say that was with lifts. The man was averaging a double-double for points and assists, so I had to give him props for that. Nevertheless, I figured on giving his ass a good paddling that day.

Then the whistle blew, and man, did that game get hostile fast. I never witnessed a nastier contest in my life—and I used to play on the courts down by P.S. 53 too.

As you might expect, every player on both teams knew what was what. So, like, this wasn’t just a game to them anymore. They were playing for the pride of the tribe, see? I mean, like, for the honor of their women. And consequently, they were out for blood.

The refs knew the score too, of course. We started mixing it up with the Whitmeyers from the get-go, and those zebras tamped down on that shit right quick. Each team had some stiff ejected in the first couple of minutes, just to send a message you know, and after that we had to behave a little better. None of us wanted to be sitting in the locker room when this bet got decided. So we made a show of playing fair. Even so, there were elbows being thrown, eyes being poked, and kidneys being punched like it was a no-rules cage-match. The thing practically gave me PTSD, or some shit like that.

The good news is that those Whitmeyer boys were out of sync, and we were cruising. They may have been tight, maybe distracted, intimidated, I don’t know. All I know is, Reilly missed his first five shots, I got my feel with some short jumpers, and we were ahead 14-2 before you could say lickety-split. Hell, I was thinking, this is gonna be easy.

Oh, I never told you how the bet was supposed to go, did I? Like I said, those girls had lawyered it up real good. So here it is. They were both to start out in their regular cheerleader kits, you know, and had to do all their normal cheer routines. There was no changing that up, no matter what happened. But, the deal was that at various points in the game, whichever team was winning, the other girl would have to strip down further. By the last media timeout, one of them would be naked.

And then at the end, of course, one of those two females was going to have to spread her legs and accept a fucking. Right there on the court.

That was the plan, at least. Now, to be honest, I was still guessing that the pair of them would get arrested before any of that could happen. But I suppose Darius had paid off the right folks, because no one ever did try to intervene. (Darius himself did miss the big show, though. He was stuck at home, making damn sure momma didn’t see any of it on the TV.)

Anyhow, we were running the table in the early going. When we came up on the commercial break at 8 minutes, that was the moment of truth. Whitmeyer was losing, so Christine was supposed to forfeit her shoes.

Now, we all know cheerleaders are an easy thing to rest your eyes on. But you haven’t ever seen so many eyes staring so hard at the cheerleaders until that moment. In the City U. huddle, we pretended to listen to coach mapping out the plays, but we were all sneaking peeks over toward the Whitmeyer pep squad. We all wanted to know the same thing; what was going to happen?

Little Chrissy’s face was pink, her eyes tense, shoulders rigid. As if she was only now starting to realize the level of peril she’d gotten herself into. After all, her boy wasn’t just losing—he was losing 18-5, and her hopes of being saved were fleeting fast. But she knew what was expected, and what else could she do? At least it was only her shoes and socks, right? So, giving herself a shove, she perched herself on a courtside chair, untied her sneakers, pulled off those socks of royal Whitmeyer blue, and then pattered out for her routine in her shapely bare feet.

No big deal, you say? Then you simply don’t get it. Those shoes were the thin end of that wedge they’re always talking about. She had just set the precedent. She’d ratified the bet. Once she started down that road, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell she could ever walk it back.

Well, I was feeling pretty solid with that lead, but I might have known it was too good to last. Whitmeyer’s a brainy school, and they had themselves a brainy coach, and he used the timeout to make some adjustments. They went small lineup, four guards, and started knocking down those rainbows they were known for. That little shit Reilly hit treys back-to-back-to-back. Then, when we began chasing him out to midcourt, he just passed it inside for easy layups. Meanwhile, I couldn’t seem to get a good touch on the offensive end, and my teammates were shooting blanks.

By the 16-minute timeout, our heads were spinning, and we didn’t know up from down. The scoreboard told the sorry tale succinctly enough though—we were losing, 32-28.

This was the second checkpoint of the bet, you might say, and this time Rita was on the short end. Christine was thrilled. It was all the girl could do to stop herself from giggling, you know? Instead, she just beamed at Rita and wiggled her bare toes.

If City U. had led pole-to-pole, then Rita could have kept her clothes on. But that bird had flown. Now, she not only had to ditch her shoes, she had to go on to the next stage as well, which involved removing her top.