Chapter 1

He seemed like a nice enough guy. I'd written a couple stories, just for fun really, because I'd come across a website that had a lot of them. I'd read some and enjoyed them and wondered if I could do it too. So I'd written about me and some of my friends, changing names and places and all that, adding a lot of my personal fantasies into it. I enjoyed it quite a lot and I was starting to think maybe I was okay at this writing thing, as long as it was just for fun, you know.

I'd gotten a lot of emails, which surprised and flattered me and I'd answered most of them, as many as I could. Some people I wrote back and forth with and I really was enjoying myself. One guy in particular seemed nice. His emails were generous without being ridiculous in his praise. He had comments and suggestions, little ones that I appreciated. It felt honest, that's all I can say about it. I enjoyed reading his emails a lot.

Eventually we agreed to meet in an internet chat room, not for any specific reason, but just to say hi and talk, rather than merely correspond. He was fun to chat with, quick witted and clever and making me smile and laugh, and time just flies by like that. So we agreed to meet again ... And again. After a few weeks of that we were meeting online almost daily and I found myself looking forward to seeing him, as we called it. We were seeing each other, although only through our keyboards.

He asked me if he could send me some pictures of himself. The man didn't ask for anything in return, he just wanted to show me who I was talking to. There was no reason that should have bothered me, so I soon found myself with a few photos of him, three of them. All of them normal, nothing strange about them or him. He looked nice, older perhaps, in his thirties or early forties, but trim and tall with sandy hair, a little darker than blonde and cut short. A handsome enough face, with deep blue eyes and a wide smile. He looked nice, that's all, a nice man posing for snapshots.

Naturally enough, once I had pictures of him I felt an obligation to show him what I looked like too. He hadn't asked me for a picture, but I wanted to give him one. So I took a picture of myself in the mirror with my little digital camera, just me smiling and looking a little fuzzy maybe, but it turned out okay. I was a little nervous because he'd read my stories, I mean this guy was a self-professed big fan, which always made me smile. But he'd read the stories and so he might have been expecting the Kylie that I described so well and so often in them. My alter-ego was rather beautiful, the way only fictional people are, the truth is always a little more mundane.

I'm a black college girl, but not so tall as I wish, only five foot eight, which sounds good, until you want to be a model. My hips are too narrow, just 32 inches to go with my 22 inch waist, but at least my butt isn't huge. I hadn't made that part up, or my breasts. They really are my best feature, if you're into that stuff. Nicely formed and firm 34C's which seem a little larger just because I'm so lean everywhere else. My face is pretty and I had my hair pulled back in sort of a long, wavy ponytail. Bright brown eyes, a small mouth and an upturned nose grace my heart shaped face.

I shouldn't have felt so insecure, I knew that, but the image of Kylie from my stories was one of perfection and the image in my mirror was the same one I'd been looking at my whole life. It's hard to compete with a good imagination and so it was with a deep breath and some silly apologies that I sent my photo off to him through the ether.

The guy loved my picture of course, and I felt relieved by that. I hadn't realized I was so desperate to impress him, but once he complimented me on my honest appearance, I let out the metaphorical breath I'd been holding and allowed myself to relax. He told me I was even prettier than he'd imagined and I returned his compliments. I told the man how serious I was in my stories about my attraction for white men, especially men with light hair and blue eyes. It was and still remains a very real thing for me and one of the reasons I'd wanted to write stories in the first place. I needed an outlet for my fantasies.

I was very stuck in a situation with my family, with my mom and dad in particular, which didn't allow me the luxury of dating just anyone I wanted. That too was an element my fictional self suffered and I used her to bend the rules, to find the strength and means to get around the prejudice in her own family and live my fantasies. I wasn't nearly so clever or strong in reality and this chatting with a white man over the internet was my first relationship of any sort with a man who wasn't black. It was intoxicating, a grand secret that was utterly safe. It couldn't be found out and that knowledge allowed me to relax much more than I normally would.

We began talking more openly with each other, and by that I mean sexually. We started with my stories, since I'd written them and so I should have been very comfortable with them. I'd posted them so that people like this man, people who shared my interests, could read them. It was easy talking about my stories and I only barely appreciated that we were in fact talking about my personal fantasies. They're one and the same, afterall. I can't write a story about something that doesn't interest me, or even about another person it seems. My character, my narrator, is always me. She's always Kylie.

And so I found myself confessing how much I would like to be with a white man, romantically or even just sexually. A one night stand would be fine for me, I'd told this guy, with my patented self-conscious giggle. If I could just make love with a white man one time, it might be enough to last me the rest of my life. A dream come true, literally. We talked long on the subject and I told him everything. I suppose it was cyber sex, although I'd only masturbate later, in my bath long after our chats were finished, but that's what it was. I'd speak of being with an anonymous man in a fantasy setting, but we were both imagining ourselves in those roles as we talked.

He would tell me how he loved beautiful young black girls. How he would love me, if it were ever possible. How he would kiss me and stroke my hair, touch my dark skin and make love to me. He'd begin slowly and build up, moving his language from romantic innuendo to the lewd and ultimately blunt slang of pornography. I didn't mind, if anything it thrilled me. I'd made no secret that during my sex I loved dirty talk, nasty words whispered in my ear during lovemaking. I'd used those words often in my stories, and in the same way. Beginning gently and ending with a rush of brutal sexual passion. I enjoyed that, I wanted it, and this man was feeding it to me.

After another few weeks, if even that long, we'd reached the point where the guy wondered if he might not send me some other photos of himself, pictures of his cock specifically, and when I agreed he immediately sent me a digital photo of his hard penis laying across a printout of my photo, the one I'd sent him. He'd printed it out in color and ejaculated on my face, with his large white cock lying across it. The ink was slightly smeared and runny around his sperm, but it was obviously my picture. He told me he'd printed my picture numerous times and jerked off on them often while we chatted.

I might have felt nervous then, a little afraid perhaps because it did seem strange, but in truth I was terribly excited. There was a white cock, still wet with cum, pressed against my face. It was shocking and thrilling and completely unexpected. I had no response to that and finally, without suggestion from the man, I took several photographs of myself nude. One of my full body and some of my sex. Some close-ups of my vagina, one with my dark labia closed and my clit hidden safely away, and another when I was aroused and wet, spreading my pussy lips to show the warm pink inside and my small clit, hard and erect from her sheath.

I sent those to him, exacting solemn promises that no one else would ever see them. I trusted him, you see. I was telling him all of my secrets and he was my accomplice in my wildest fantasies. I was trusting him with my body now, with my identity as I hadn't tried to cover my face in anyway. We continued chatting that way for several more weeks, daily now, sometimes two or three times a day. In the morning before classes, after school, and at night before I went to sleep. He knew my schedule and so many other things besides. The information seeps out of us as we talk, it's unavoidable as our guards fall and our trust grows, but I was so naive then.

To use the web cam was my own suggestion, but the man told me he didn't have one. He made it clear that he'd love to see me using mine though and I was in a headlong rush to excite him. I didn't hesitate, setting up my small camera so he could see and hear me as we chatted. I rather enjoyed that and although it was strange, being one way as it was, with the man seeing me while I could only read his words, I did enjoy it. There was something of an exhibitionist inside me, perhaps, one I hadn't been aware of, and I liked the way he would ask me to point the camera at different parts of my body, making me giggle and flush as I'd tease him with it.

Eventually I was most often naked, or barely dressed in front of my computer, letting him see my breasts, or even pointing the camera lower, offering my sex to the man's eyes. It would make me wet, exposing myself that way for a white man, enough so that I would rub myself occasionally, stroking my dark pussy and thumbing my clit while he told me how sexy that was.

I sent him numerous photos of myself as well and he was suggesting things, asking me to wear certain clothes or to play with myself for him. I took pictures of myself doing things I would have never done for a boyfriend, but I was doing them for this stranger. I would finger my pussy for him, taking pictures of my black cunt splayed pink and wet in a mirror. I'd finger my ass and pinch and pull my large brown nipples. I used toys on myself, letting him see my pussy filled with the thick handle of my hairbrush, for example, or the small vibrator I had.

And he would return my photos, printed out and dripping with his cum. It was amazing how exciting that was to me; how it catered to perversions I didn't know I had. I was hot for it, for our games and sexy talk and vulgar confessions of lust. When he asked if he could call me on the phone I hesitated for a day, less than that. He'd asked me in the morning and by that evening I was in my bed, hearing his deep voice telling me how he wanted to fuck me. He was going to put his big white cock in my little black pussy and make me cum all over it.

I was rubbing myself then, masturbating and describing in detail how I was rubbing my clit and fingering my horny little hole. How my nipples seemed to burn cold until I had to punish them with sharp pinches and soft slaps. He didn't believe me, chuckling at my words, and I held the phone near my breasts so he could hear the soft spankings I delivered upon my own flesh. It was fighting fire with fire, I told him, that my breasts ached painfully when I was aroused and so I had to hurt them in order to make them feel better.

That seemed to please him a great deal and he asked me if I ever spanked my pussy the same way, which made me giggle, but at his suggestion I found myself doing precisely that. I'd spread my legs and tell him what I was doing, how I was spanking my bad little pussy for being such a horny slut of a hole. I'd hold the phone close, letting him hear the soft sounds, the sting of those sticky slaps across my dripping cunt and it did feel good, amazingly so.

I wasn't surprised when he told me that he was stroking his cock while I spanked my tits and pussy. He was going to cum because I was so beautiful for him, so unbelievably sexy doing those things. He'd never known anyone like me and I was making love to him over the phone. His words thrilled me and made it even better, so that I was cumming as well. I orgasmed many times that first night we spoke, breathing hard across the wires and moaning just for him.

I'd beg him to talk me while I was fucking myself, asking the man to call me names and verbally abuse me. I wanted it dirty, I said, as obscene as he could get because I loved that so much. He was willing and I played with my cunt hard while he called me his nigger slut and his cocksucking whore. I was just a black cunt for him to fuck and use and I knew it, that's what he'd say, that I knew what I was and he'd demand that I agree. It was heaven for me then, as close as I would ever get to my real fantasy, speaking with this unknown white man over the phone while I fingered myself.

The phone calls too became a nightly thing, him calling me three nights in a row and then four. By this time I'd long since broken up with my boyfriend. I'd had no more time for him; I was much too busy on my computer. My schoolwork suffered as well and my relationships with other friends became strained by my absence. I was becoming obsessed and very nearly a shut-in, and addicted to this strange man and his attentions.

I mentioned it one night, telling him that I needed to slow down. I said that I had to study harder and spend more time with my family and friends. He seemed to understand and there was nothing in his voice to suggest anything but sympathy and concern. I was relieved and grateful and we had a good session that night. I fucked my pussy hard with my hairbrush while he told me how he was going to fuck a baby into my womb, a white child that I couldn't hide. Everyone would know what a slut I was, what a little black whore I had to be, allowing a white man to impregnate me.

The man made me beg for it, telling him breathlessly how badly I wanted to feel his potent white sperm filling my womb. How I was ovulating right then and I wouldn't let him use a condom, or even pull out. I was riding him, fucking him with my fertile black cunt sucking greedily at his hard white prick. When I was cumming and unable to say anymore, it was his turn to tell me once again how he was going to fuck me, and keep his cock inside me all night long. He'd fall asleep holding me tight and when he awoke with his cock still hard and inside my nigger cunt, he'd fuck me again and again after that, until my black belly was swollen with his white child.

It was a good fantasy for me and I came several times for him before saying goodnight. We'd talk again in a few days, I promised. I'd email him and tell him when would be a good time to call and he agreed, wishing me sweet dreams and telling me he loved me. I slept well that night, feeling exhausted but happy, content with the way our relationship had progressed. This was the plateau, I knew that. It was as high as we could get and we both had to understand that. I'd explained countless times my situation and how I couldn't possible think of dating a white man. Internet and phone calls, that was as good as it would get and for myself, I was actually satisfied by that, I think.

Several days later I returned home from my afternoon classes and there was mail waiting for me. A package addressed to me by name and delivered to my dorm mother, the older woman who babysat the freshman girls living there. The envelope had no return address and it was large, brown and thick, rather bulky and taped tightly shut. I puzzled over it briefly and opened it when I got to my room, staring at the contents as I spilled the envelope over my bed.

There were the photos of me, color prints of every picture I'd ever sent the man. A CD-R that had recordings of all of our phone conversations, every one of them organized by date and time, and small movies from my web cam, all of those sessions recorded forever in living color. There were logs of our chat sessions, complete with my ISP information, my student account with the university server plain at the top of each log. It was all there and more. There were other photos as well, not prints, but actual glossy photographs of me walking out of my dorm and across the campus. Pictures of me sitting with my friends or sitting alone.

I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know who would do this to me. My first thought was that someone had hacked into my computer somehow, one of the students here at college. Someone was stalking me and they'd discovered my relationship with the man I'd met online. That's what I thought and it was the only thing that made sense. There was no note, no threats or warnings, no demand for money or whatever. The only thing in that envelope was me.

"Hello?" I answered my phone.

"Kylie. Hi."

His voice startled me. I was so frightened, thinking it would be whoever had sent me the envelope, but it was the guy from the internet and he must have gotten the dates confused. He wasn't supposed to call for a few more days.

"Hi," I said and then laughed, letting my fear go. "I thought you weren't calling until Sunday night."

"I know. Did you get the package I sent you?" he asked gently and I went suddenly cold all over.

"You sent me that?" I asked. "Why?"

"I have a dozen more envelopes just like it. I addressed them to your parents, your friends, your professors, and the dean of students." He spoke calmly, quietly. "I even addressed one to your grandparents, Kylie."

"What?" I couldn't even whisper and my mind was blank.

"Your grandparents? The ones in Chicago?" he said. "I have an envelope for them too."

"Why?" I swallowed thickly as hot tears flooded my eyes.

"Because I want to see you," he replied. "I want to see you tonight at the Motel Eight, the one on University Avenue downtown, room 303, Kylie. Can you remember that? I want you there at seven o'clock sharp."

"I can't ... I..." I closed my eyes tightly. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you," he said, and then the phone went dead and I just sat there staring at it for a long while.

I tried to think. I tried to understand what was going on, but I couldn't. I didn't know how this guy had found me. I didn't know why he'd want to hurt me this way. I had to find a way out of it and I thought about calling the police at first. If I called them and told them what was going on, they could go there. The police could go to that motel and break down the door and arrest him.

But what did he do? He'd collected all that stuff, but I'd sent him the pictures. I'd agreed to talk to him on the phone. It was my voice on the recordings telling him when to call again, telling him all those other things as well. I'd used the web cam, no one had forced me. He'd taken some pictures of me in public and what else? Threatened to send it all to people I really, really didn't want to see it. But he hadn't asked for anything except to see me. He hadn't demanded money or threatened me in anyway. He hadn't even told me not to go to the police. So could they arrest him for that?

I didn't know, but it seemed unlikely.

And even if they did arrest him for something, what if those envelopes were someplace else? What if he had a friend who would drop them in the mailbox if something happened to him? What if they arrested him and the newspapers heard the story? A black girl flirting with a white man over the internet gets blackmailed into ... What? Meeting him for sex probably, that's what they'd want it to be. That would be as bad as the envelopes, maybe worse because the whole world would know. Not specifics maybe, but enough to humiliate me beyond reason.

There were so many questions and I had no idea what to do. I thought about calling my ex-boyfriend. He was big; he had a lot of tough friends. Maybe they could beat this guy up, find out where those envelopes were and get them. But I didn't want anyone knowing what I'd been doing, especially not my old boyfriend. He'd think I dropped him for that white guy, and he'd be right, in a manner of speaking. He wouldn't help me; our breakup had come without warning and his pride was still smarting from it. He'd probably mail the envelopes himself if he could.

I could get a gun. Yeah right, where was I going to get a gun? And what would I do with it if I did? Shoot myself? I could ... Oh God, what was I going to do? I could tell my parents. No, even the gun was a better idea than that. I'd be disowned, kicked out, tossed away like black trash and I wish I was exaggerating, but I'm not. It's happened to other people in my family, for a lot less than that. The mere idea that I was interested in a white guy would have upset my parents to no end. The fact that I'd flirted with one, talked sexy and sent naked pictures, pornographic pictures of myself to a white guy ... I'd be dead to them.

All I could do was what the man wanted. I didn't want to. I desperately prayed that all of this was a bad joke, or a dream, or something. I prayed to God, promising him anything and everything if He would deliver me from this mess. I was bargaining with him, offering God a deal, the way desperate people do. Whatever His answer, I didn't hear it. I was lost to Him as well it seemed and that made me feel broken inside. I'd been raised with a lot of faith, a ton of religion, and I'd never asked God for anything before. I was utterly alone then and for the first time in my life.

Seven o'clock was coming fast. I dressed down for the occasion and my spirits were dim. I wore a dark dress, long and ugly and unflattering. I left my hair unbrushed and used no makeup. I wore plain underwear and low heeled shoes. I removed all of my jewelry except my watch, and then left a note along with that envelope on my desk, explaining where I was going, when and why, just in case nobody ever saw me again. I felt like I was dying and I cleaned my dorm room before I left. Straightening it for the first time since I'd moved in six months before. I dusted and vacuumed, and made it look nice. I don't know why. I just needed to do that before I left.