A Walk Downtown
A racist, rich girl discovers a taste for dark meat
CW: Subtle/overt racism
I.
Downtown. The word made her shudder, with all it's horrific implications.
Her eyes darted left and right, head downcast to avoid making eye contact with the...natives. She had a death-grip on her Chanel clutch, jolting at every shadow, ever impassive look from the neigbourhood kids.
How the fuck could you do this to me, Brianna? she fumed silently, cursing her best sorority friend with every breath and every step.
Brianna had always been more experimental than her; Cheryl had always said that, in her not-exactly-bitchy-but-slightly-judgmental way. At the srat, the joke had always been: Cheryl's the pretty, hot one, but Brianna's down for anything. She'd always been more willing to take chances, make mistakes.
Case in point: her new 'boo' Tariq.
She'd scoffed at the lovey-dovey texts Brianna had sent her:
Brianna: see u downtown 2 meet my boo 💕😍💕
Brianna: deadass ur gonna luv him.
"Deadass...God almighty..."
The boy already threw up an armada of red flags: poor, uneducated (and not in a not-from-an-Ivy way), and, worst of all, a rapper. She'd sampled his 'hits' - such classics as Make it Rain (Snowbunnies) and Throat Goat. Why is black culture so lewd...
Now, it wasn't that Cheryl was racist, per se.
Cheryl just simply failed to see why she had to pretend there was value in black culture, and it irritated her that she had to feign sympathy for their struggles. Yes, they had suffered under slavery - but black people enslaved other black people! Surely that had to count for something. And besides, it had been like...over a hundred years since slavery existed.
The black community just had to do what her Daddy did: pull themselves up by their bootstraps, take responsibility for themselves, and stop whining and whinging.
Swear to God, George Floyd drove everyone insane...
So caught up in her vicious thoughts, Cheryl didn't even see him.
"Ugh!" she let out a gasp as the towering man brushed past her. He was six foot five of muscle, in a black tee and blue jeans, a gold chain on his neck, his hair shaved to a subtle fade. "Uh, sorry..." she said, gut twisting with disgust, heart pounding.
The man passed her, eyes glinting, as a grin came to his face.
"You gotta get you some dark meat, skinny-ass hoe. You know that mouth made for black dick."
Cheryl blinked, so scandalised she only barely suppressed the instinctive slur on her lips.
Cheryl wanted to say she stormed off, a picture of ladylike restraint. But she was in full flight, shaking uncontrollably, trying to contain her mounting fear...
II.
The heat bore down on her, a blanket of oppressive thought as the man's words rolled around in her mind. She could not dislodge the man's words: why did they have such a hold on her?
Slowly, imperceptibly, the wheel became to turn as the man's words wormed their way into the cracks in her psyche.
Skinny-ass hoe.
It was not even a question that she was skinny; supermodel-thin, the picture of elegance and restraint. Before, that had been a point of pride, a key element of her often-commented-upon beauty. Cheryl: slim, blonde, and ever-so-pretty. The latest fashion at her finger-tips, designer clothes a whisper away, all made up no matter the occasion.
The epitome of taste, she and Brianna had shared a private joke at the srat: if your family didn't land rich on Plymouth Rock, you weren't worth a second date. She'd dated the sons of CEOs, future football stars, entrepreneurs - she'd been on top -
Skinny-ass hoe.
Like a sledgehammer, the words smashed her latent self-image.
Now, new memories stirred from the shards of her psyche.
III.
Cheryl had always been a little different.
Uncles, aunts, they all said she was a beautiful child. But quietly, she'd hated her skinniness, her pale complexion. Where the other girls watched Britney obsessively, she'd been fascinated by Christina Aguilera and Destiny's Child. The way their bodies moved, their curves, their tanned, skin...
Cheryl scowled as she remembered asking her Daddy for a Destiny's Child C.D.
"I'm not gonna have you listening to that urban filth in this house, Cheryl!" her dad had screamed, veins bulging in his reddening forehead. She remembered looking at him and despising him, his casual (and overt) racism. She looked at herself in the mirror. She had his skin. She hated that.
All hell broke word got 'round town that she'd kissed her black classmate in sophomore year.
"You're a disgrace to this family, Cheryl!" her mother had wept. "My daughter, a two-cent whore..."
"He's my friend, Mum," she'd spat through tears, with mounting disgust.
But she hadn't told her parents the whole truth - they didn't know the true depths of what that kiss had awoken in her.
IV.
Get you some dark meat.
Her little crush had morphed into an obsession.
Years passed, Cheryl came of age, and she'd become fixated with the way black men looked at her. She craved it, needed their lustful glare. Needed to become what they most desired.
She learned quickly - flirt hard and often. Turn up to the track and field games in short skirts, show off her perky tits. Feign interest in their stories. It was a revelation the first time Derek fingered her under the bleachers. If he'd asked, she knew she would've taken his black rod in her little, wet mouth there...
She knew some of the boys loved her because she was 'that white girl', basic, beautiful, blonde. But she'd grown tired of them quickly. She found she had no love for coconuts - black on the outside, white on the inside. Her heart longed for the ones most alien to her staid, conservative upbringing. The ones who treated her like a piece of white meat...
Get you some dark meat.
She needed more.
Tens of thousands of her family's money went into bronzing, tanning, excising her paleness - her whiteness - concealing her moles and marks. She would be a bronzed, tanned doll for them. Not a single imperfection. Tanned skin, pink mouth. The perfect contrast for their dark skin.
"You can be their little cherry on top," Bri had always joked.
As Cherry - Cheryl - walked through downtown in a daze, her mind revolted - this wasn't her, this wasn't her story, this wasn't -
V.
You know that mouth made for black cock
She was on her knees - naked, skin tanned and goosepimpled, staring at an immense black cock. Cheryl was horrified, shocked at the way the man (Chris?) looked down at her with naked lust, naked command. She wanted to run, she wanted to -
"You know that mouth made for black cock, babe," he'd drawled.
Cheryl blinked. His scent was thick in the air.
You know that mouth made for black cock
Cherry blinked. A seductive grin spread across her lips, as she wrapped slender fingers around his cock. "Let me show you what this mouth do."
She'd wanted this for a month and now, finally, she was where she belonged. On her knees, black cock stretching her mouth, tickling the back of her throat. In the background, Throat Goat was playing.
She was inexperienced, but enthusiastic. She timed her sucking to the thrumming beat, one hand dropping to cup his balls. Her thighs were slick with need as she fondled his balls, took his cock as deep as he could. She could feel him twitch, taste pre-cum...
"Oh, oh fuck, babe - "
He came with a start, hot cum blasting the back of her throat, making her gag and splutter. Ropes of cum glazed her chin, as she coughed and spluttered. Chris fell back onto the bed with a sigh. Cherry tried to swallow, just as the girls in the videos always did...
"D-did you like it?" she asked, posing as sexily as she could. She needed his approval in this moment.
Chris looked at her appraisingly. "You were pretty good for a skinny bitch."
VII.
Pretty good for a skinny bitch.
The words had haunted her. Or, perhaps more accurately, had liberated her. She wasn't good enough. She'd never been good enough.
She needed to be the best.
Cherry spent hours in the gym, obsessed with thickening her skinny ass. Time rewarded her, and she rejoiced as the men ogled her burgeoning curves. But nothing matched the perverse glee she got as she watched her Daddy's despair, his anguish, as his good, little white daughter disappeared piece-by-piece.
Her empathy died. She played on his need for closeness to convince him to pay for her surgeries. Lip fillers, botox, shaping and sculpting her face to accentuate her thick lips. Her cockpillow lips.
Whenever he resisted she just laughed, shrugged, and said: "Whatever Daddy, I'll just say I couldn't afford it and suck off the cosmetic surgeon for free."
He always broke.
She liked to admire herself in the mirror, her dead eyes, her thick lips, her swelling tits. It had taken little encouragement from Bri to go under the knife.
And with each upgrade, she saw her future stretched out before her: a thick, snowbunny trophy-whore on the arm of a black king.
VIII.
By the time, she reached Ebony Bar, Cherry's body had transformed into the snowbunny ideal.
She eye-fucked every last black man on her way in, hands trailing temptingly over her curves, tempting them to imagine her plump lips around their cocks. Her pussy ached with need for them, savoured their leering eyes.
All eyes were on her, her curves the gravity of the club's attention.
Her hands trailed the pole leading down, a smirk on her thick lips. Maybe she's see that hottie from the street. If not, well, there was always Tariq.
Bri would understand, would want to share.
After all, she knew that Cherry always had a weakness for the dark meat.
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