I never thought my life would spiral into this abyss, but here I am, Sarah Thompson, once a proud blonde cop in the heart of Chicago, now reduced to a quivering mess of need and shame. It all started with that fateful night shift. I was patrolling a dark alley, my heart pounding from the adrenaline of a reported break-in. The suspect lunged at me—or at least, that's what I thought in the split-second panic. My finger squeezed the trigger before I could process the face: a young black man, unarmed, just reaching for his wallet. The bullet hit him square in the chest. He died on the spot.
The media descended like vultures. "Racist Cop Kills Innocent Black Man!" screamed the headlines. Protests erupted outside the precinct, my face plastered everywhere as the poster child for security officer brutality. I was suspended, then arrested for manslaughter. My blonde hair and blue eyes made me the perfect villain in their narrative— the all-American white girl who embodied systemic racism. I wasn't racist; it was a tragic mistake, but no one cared. My world crumbled: friends ghosted me, family distanced themselves, and the hate mail poured in.
Enter my lawyer, Marcus Hale, a sharp-dressed black man with a reputation for getting tough cases dismissed. He was assigned pro bono, probably to make a statement. In his sleek office, he laid it out plain: "Sarah, the jury's gonna see you as a bigot. Evidence is damning, but perception is everything. We need to flip the script. Show you're not prejudiced—hell, show you embrace the community. Mingle with black men, date one publicly. Make it look genuine. It'll humanize you, reduce the sentence from years to probation."
I stared at him, my cheeks burning. "Date? Like, for real?" He nodded, his eyes lingering on my curves a second too long. "The more... intimate, the better. Leak some photos if you have to. Juries eat up redemption stories." I was desperate. Prison terrified me—orange jumpsuits, isolation, the end of my life. So I agreed. Marcus hooked me up with connections in the hip-hop scene. That's how I met Mathew.
Mathew "King Mat" Johnson was a rising rapper, tall, muscled, with dreads and tattoos that screamed street cred. He performed at underground clubs, spitting bars about overcoming the system. Marcus introduced us at a party, and Mathew's gaze devoured me from the start—my tight jeans hugging my ass, my low-cut top showing off my perky C-cups. "So you're the cop bitch everyone's talking about," he smirked, pulling me close. His hand grazed my thigh, and I shivered, a mix of fear and forbidden thrill. By the end of the night, we were making out in his VIP booth, his strong hands pinning me against the wall as his tongue invaded my mouth. He tasted like weed and whiskey, and I let him, telling myself it was for the case.
Our "relationship" escalated fast. Mathew paraded me around like a trophy—his white cop girlfriend, the ultimate flex. At first, it was exciting: lavish parties, expensive gifts, his massive cock stretching me out in his penthouse bed. I'd ride him reverse cowgirl, my blonde hair bouncing as he slapped my ass, calling me his "little snow bunny." "You love this black dick, don't you, Sarah? Say it." And I'd moan, "Yes, Daddy, I love it," my pussy clenching around him, juices dripping down his shaft. It was humiliating, but the orgasms were intense, shattering me in ways my ex-boyfriends never could.
Then the exploitation ramped up. Mathew wasn't content with just us. "To make it real, baby, we gotta go all in," he said one night, after fucking me senseless. He invited his crew over—five black rappers from his label, all built like gods, cocks bulging in their jeans. I protested at first, but Mathew whispered, "Do this for your freedom, slut. Marcus said it needs to look authentic." My heart raced as they circled me in the living room, stripping me down. I was on my knees, surrounded by throbbing black cocks, each one thicker than the last.
"Suck it, cop whore," one growled, shoving his meat into my mouth. I gagged, tears streaming, but Mathew held my head, forcing me deeper. They took turns, face-fucking me until my jaw ached, spit and pre-cum coating my chin. Then they bent me over the couch. The first one slammed into my pussy from behind, his balls slapping my clit as I cried out. "Tight white pussy," he grunted. Another filled my mouth, muting my moans. They rotated, pounding me raw—double penetration, one in my ass while another stretched my cunt. Pain mixed with pleasure, my body betraying me as I came hard, squirting on the floor. By the end, I was a cum-covered mess, their loads dripping from every hole, my blonde hair matted with seed.
Mathew filmed it all on his phone. "For memories," he laughed. But a week later, the tape "leaked" online. "Racist Cop Turns Interracial Slut!" went viral. Comments flooded in: "She's loving that BBC redemption arc." "From killer to cum dumpster—poetic justice." I was mortified, curled up in bed sobbing, but Marcus called it a win. "The narrative's shifting. You're not a racist; you're a reformed white girl who craves black men. Juries will eat it up."
The trial was a circus. Protesters outside chanted my name, but now with a twisted admiration. Marcus presented "evidence" of my transformation—photos of me with Mathew, snippets of the tape blurred for court. The black jurors nodded knowingly; even the judge seemed swayed. "Ms. Thompson shows remorse and integration," he said. Sentence reduced: probation, community service in black neighborhoods. I walked free, but at what cost?
Mathew dumped me right after, calling me "used goods." But the damage was done. The tape branded me forever. Men hit me up constantly—black guys wanting their "piece of the cop slut." I tried to go back to normal, but the cravings hit hard. Those gangbangs awakened something filthy in me. I'd masturbate to the memories, fingering myself to orgasm while imagining more cocks.
That's when Deon entered the picture—a slick black pimp with gold teeth and a stable of girls. He approached me at a bar, recognizing me from the tape. "You got potential, snowflake. Let me manage you. You'll make bank as the famous white whore." I should have run, but my pussy throbbed at the thought. He took me to his crib that night, testing the goods. "On your knees, bitch." I obeyed, sucking his veiny cock like a pro, deepthroating until he nutted down my throat. The taste—salty, thick—hooked me instantly.
Deon turned me out quick. He dressed me in skimpy outfits: micro skirts, fishnets, heels that screamed "fuck me." My first john was a group of black businessmen at a hotel. "Entertain them, cumslut," Deon ordered. I stripped teasingly, my pale skin glowing under the lights. They ravaged me—one in my mouth, one in my pussy, another in my ass. I screamed in ecstasy as they filled me, cum leaking everywhere. "More," I begged, my body on fire. Deon collected the cash, slapping my ass. "Good girl. You're mine now."
Nights blurred into orgies. Deon pimped me to rappers, athletes, gangsters—always black men, feeding the "interracial slut" myth. Gangbangs became routine: ten guys at a time, using me like a fleshlight. I'd be airtight, every hole stuffed, cum pouring out as I came over and over. The humiliation fueled my addiction; I'd lick it off the floor if they told me to. "You're a black-owned whore now, Sarah," Deon would say, tattooing "BBC Slut" on my ass.
I live for the cum now. It's my drug—the warm spurts on my face, in my womb, down my throat. I crave the degradation, the way they call me "pig" or "trash" while pounding me senseless. My old life? Gone. I'm Sarah the Cum Addict, exploited and loving it, a blonde puppet for black kings. And deep down, in the haze of orgasms, I wouldn't change a thing.
I never thought my life would spiral into this abyss, but here I am, Sarah Thompson, once a proud blonde cop in the heart of Chicago, now reduced to a quivering mess of need and shame. It all started with that fateful night shift. I was patrolling a dark alley, my heart pounding from the adrenaline of a reported break-in. The suspect lunged at me—or at least, that's what I thought in the split-second panic. My finger squeezed the trigger before I could process the face: a young black man, unarmed, just reaching for his wallet. The bullet hit him square in the chest. He died on the spot.
The media descended like vultures. "Racist Cop Kills Innocent Black Man!" screamed the headlines. Protests erupted outside the precinct, my face plastered everywhere as the poster child for security officer brutality. I was suspended, then arrested for manslaughter. My blonde hair and blue eyes made me the perfect villain in their narrative—the all-American white girl who embodied systemic racism. I wasn't racist; it was a tragic mistake, but no one cared. My world crumbled: friends ghosted me, family distanced themselves, and the hate mail poured in.
Enter my lawyer, Marcus Hale, a sharp-dressed black man with a reputation for getting tough cases dismissed. He was assigned pro bono, probably to make a statement. In his sleek office, he laid it out plain: "Sarah, the jury's gonna see you as a bigot. Evidence is damning, but perception is everything. We need to flip the script. Show you're not prejudiced—hell, show you embrace the community. Mingle with black men, date one publicly. Make it look genuine. It'll humanize you, reduce the sentence from years to probation."
I stared at him, my cheeks burning. "Date? Like, for real?" He nodded, his eyes lingering on my curves a second too long. "The more... intimate, the better. Leak some photos if you have to. Juries eat up redemption stories." I was desperate. Prison terrified me—orange jumpsuits, isolation, the end of my life. So I agreed. Marcus hooked me up with connections in the hip-hop scene. That's how I met Mathew.
Mathew "King Mat" Johnson was a rising rapper, tall, muscled, with dreads and tattoos that screamed street cred. He performed at underground clubs, spitting bars about overcoming the system. Marcus introduced us at a party, and Mathew's gaze devoured me from the start—my tight jeans hugging my ass, my low-cut top showing off my perky C-cups. "So you're the cop bitch everyone's talking about," he smirked, pulling me close. His hand grazed my thigh, and I shivered, a mix of fear and forbidden thrill. By the end of the night, we were making out in his VIP booth, his strong hands pinning me against the wall as his tongue invaded my mouth. He tasted like weed and whiskey, and I let him, telling myself it was for the case.
Our "relationship" escalated fast. Mathew paraded me around like a trophy—his white cop girlfriend, the ultimate flex. At first, it was exciting: lavish parties, expensive gifts, his massive cock stretching me out in his penthouse bed. I'd ride him reverse cowgirl, my blonde hair bouncing as he slapped my ass, calling me his "little snow bunny." "You love this black dick, don't you, Sarah? Say it." And I'd moan, "Yes, Daddy, I love it," my pussy clenching around him, juices dripping down his shaft. It was humiliating, but the orgasms were intense, shattering me in ways my ex-boyfriends never could.
Then came the Playboy offer. It hit my inbox out of nowhere—a scout had seen the buzz around me and Mathew, the "controversial couple." They wanted me for a spread: "From Badge to Bare—Sarah's Redemption." Tasteful nudes, they said, empowering women or some bullshit. I laughed it off at first, but Mathew's eyes lit up when I showed him. "This is perfect, baby. Show the world you're owning your shit—literally." He called Marcus right away, and the two of them ganged up on me in Mathew's living room. "Do it, Sarah," Marcus urged, his voice firm. "This'll seal the deal for the trial. Posing for Playboy? It's vulnerability, it's embracing sexuality. Juries will see you're not hiding—you're evolving." Mathew nodded, his hand squeezing my thigh possessively. "And it'll make me look good too, having a Playboy chick on my arm. You owe us this." I protested, my face flushing—me, a cop, baring it all? But they wore me down, threats of dropping the case or leaking more dirt if I refused. Desperation won; I signed the contract, my hands shaking.
The day of the shoot was a nightmare. We arrived at the studio—a sleek LA setup with lights, cameras, and a crew of mostly men smirking behind their equipment. Mathew insisted on coming, and Marcus tagged along "for legal oversight." The photographer started with lingerie shots, my body on display in skimpy black lace that barely covered my nipples or the trim of my pubic hair. But Mathew wasn't satisfied. "Nah, this ain't enough," he barked midway through, striding onto the set like he owned it. "Strip her all the way. Everyone needs to see that pink pussy from today on." My eyes widened in horror as he yanked off my thong, exposing me completely. The crew chuckled, phones subtly out—were they recording? "Mathew, please," I whimpered, crossing my legs, but he grabbed a razor from the makeup table. "Hold still, snow bunny. Time to shave you bald." He lathered me up right there, the cold foam making me gasp, then scbangd away every hair, his fingers "accidentally" brushing my clit until I was dripping wet despite the shame. The crew laughed outright now, catcalling: "Look at that cop cunt shine!" "She's loving it!" I stood there, bald and bare, my smooth vagina on full display, feeling like a piece of meat.
Overwhelmed, tears stinging my eyes, I turned and hugged Marcus for comfort—clinging to him naked, my bare breasts pressing against his suit. "Make it stop," I whispered, but he just held me tighter, his hands sliding down to grip my ass. "Shh, Sarah. This is part of it. Let me help you relax." The crew cleared out for a "break," but Mathew grinned, locking the door. "Yeah, Marcus, show her what real support looks like." Before I could process, Marcus pushed me onto a nearby couch, his pants dropping to reveal his thick black cock. "You've been teasing me since day one," he growled, flipping me onto all fours. Mathew watched, stroking himself, as Marcus lubed up and pressed against my virgin asshole. "No, not there!" I begged, but he thrust in slow and deep, the burn turning to a twisted fullness that made me moan involuntarily. "Take it, slut. This'll loosen you up for the shoot." He pounded my ass relentlessly, his balls slapping my shaved pussy, while Mathew filmed it. I came shamefully hard, my body betraying me again, anal virginity gone in a haze of pain and pleasure. They high-fived over my trembling form, cum leaking from my stretched hole.
The rest of the shoot? I posed like a pro—legs spread wide, fingers parting my bald lips, the camera capturing every inch. The issue flew off shelves: "Sarah's Bare Truth." It boosted the narrative— I was the reformed slut now, baring my soul (and more) for redemption.
Then the exploitation ramped up further. Mathew wasn't content with just us. "To make it real, baby, we gotta go all in," he said one night, after fucking me senseless. He invited his crew over—five black rappers from his label, all built like gods, cocks bulging in their jeans. I protested at first, but Mathew whispered, "Do this for your freedom, slut. Marcus said it needs to look authentic." My heart raced as they circled me in the living room, stripping me down. I was on my knees, surrounded by throbbing black cocks, each one thicker than the last.
"Suck it, cop whore," one growled, shoving his meat into my mouth. I gagged, tears streaming, but Mathew held my head, forcing me deeper. They took turns, face-fucking me until my jaw ached, spit and pre-cum coating my chin. Then they bent me over the couch. The first one slammed into my pussy from behind, his balls slapping my clit as I cried out. "Tight white pussy," he grunted. Another filled my mouth, muting my moans. They rotated, pounding me raw—double penetration, one in my ass (now broken in by Marcus) while another stretched my cunt. Pain mixed with pleasure, my body betraying me as I came hard, squirting on the floor. By the end, I was a cum-covered mess, their loads dripping from every hole, my blonde hair matted with seed.
Mathew filmed it all on his phone. "For memories," he laughed. But a week later, the tape "leaked" online. "Racist Cop Turns Interracial Slut!" went viral. Comments flooded in: "She's loving that BBC redemption arc." "From killer to cum dumpster—poetic justice." I was mortified, curled up in bed sobbing, but Marcus called it a win. "The narrative's shifting. You're not a racist; you're a reformed white girl who craves black men. Juries will eat it up."
The trial was a circus. Protesters outside chanted my name, but now with a twisted admiration. Marcus presented "evidence" of my transformation—photos of me with Mathew, snippets of the tape blurred for court, even the Playboy spread as "empowerment." The black jurors nodded knowingly; even the judge seemed swayed. "Ms. Thompson shows remorse and integration," he said. Sentence reduced: probation, community service in black neighborhoods. I walked free, but at what cost?
Mathew dumped me right after, calling me "used goods." But the damage was done. The tape and Playboy branded me forever. Men hit me up constantly—black guys wanting their "piece of the cop slut." I tried to go back to normal, but the cravings hit hard. Those gangbangs and the anal deflowering awakened something filthy in me. I'd masturbate to the memories, fingering myself to orgasm while imagining more cocks.
That's when Deon entered the picture—a slick black pimp with gold teeth and a stable of girls. He approached me at a bar, recognizing me from the tape and the magazine. "You got potential, snowflake. Let me manage you. You'll make bank as the famous white whore." I should have run, but my pussy throbbed at the thought. He took me to his crib that night, testing the goods. "On your knees, bitch." I obeyed, sucking his veiny cock like a pro, deepthroating until he nutted down my throat. The taste—salty, thick—hooked me instantly.
Deon turned me out quick. He dressed me in skimpy outfits: micro skirts, fishnets, heels that screamed "fuck me." My first john was a group of black businessmen at a hotel. "Entertain them, cumslut," Deon ordered. I stripped teasingly, my pale skin glowing under the lights. They ravaged me—one in my mouth, one in my pussy, another in my ass. I screamed in ecstasy as they filled me, cum leaking everywhere. "More," I begged, my body on fire. Deon collected the cash, slapping my ass. "Good girl. You're mine now."
Nights blurred into orgies. Deon pimped me to rappers, athletes, gangsters—always black men, feeding the "interracial slut" myth. Gangbangs became routine: ten guys at a time, using me like a fleshlight. I'd be airtight, every hole stuffed, cum pouring out as I came over and over. The humiliation fueled my addiction; I'd lick it off the floor if they told me to. "You're a black-owned whore now, Sarah," Deon would say, tattooing "BBC Slut" on my ass.
I live for the cum now. It's my drug—the warm spurts on my face, in my womb, down my throat. I crave the degradation, the way they call me "pig" or "trash" while pounding me senseless. My old life? Gone. I'm Sarah the Cum Addict, exploited and loving it, a blonde puppet for black kings. And deep down, in the haze of orgasms, I wouldn't change a thing.
The media descended like vultures. "Racist Cop Kills Innocent Black Man!" screamed the headlines. Protests erupted outside the precinct, my face plastered everywhere as the poster child for security officer brutality. I was suspended, then arrested for manslaughter. My blonde hair and blue eyes made me the perfect villain in their narrative— the all-American white girl who embodied systemic racism. I wasn't racist; it was a tragic mistake, but no one cared. My world crumbled: friends ghosted me, family distanced themselves, and the hate mail poured in.
Enter my lawyer, Marcus Hale, a sharp-dressed black man with a reputation for getting tough cases dismissed. He was assigned pro bono, probably to make a statement. In his sleek office, he laid it out plain: "Sarah, the jury's gonna see you as a bigot. Evidence is damning, but perception is everything. We need to flip the script. Show you're not prejudiced—hell, show you embrace the community. Mingle with black men, date one publicly. Make it look genuine. It'll humanize you, reduce the sentence from years to probation."
I stared at him, my cheeks burning. "Date? Like, for real?" He nodded, his eyes lingering on my curves a second too long. "The more... intimate, the better. Leak some photos if you have to. Juries eat up redemption stories." I was desperate. Prison terrified me—orange jumpsuits, isolation, the end of my life. So I agreed. Marcus hooked me up with connections in the hip-hop scene. That's how I met Mathew.
Mathew "King Mat" Johnson was a rising rapper, tall, muscled, with dreads and tattoos that screamed street cred. He performed at underground clubs, spitting bars about overcoming the system. Marcus introduced us at a party, and Mathew's gaze devoured me from the start—my tight jeans hugging my ass, my low-cut top showing off my perky C-cups. "So you're the cop bitch everyone's talking about," he smirked, pulling me close. His hand grazed my thigh, and I shivered, a mix of fear and forbidden thrill. By the end of the night, we were making out in his VIP booth, his strong hands pinning me against the wall as his tongue invaded my mouth. He tasted like weed and whiskey, and I let him, telling myself it was for the case.
Our "relationship" escalated fast. Mathew paraded me around like a trophy—his white cop girlfriend, the ultimate flex. At first, it was exciting: lavish parties, expensive gifts, his massive cock stretching me out in his penthouse bed. I'd ride him reverse cowgirl, my blonde hair bouncing as he slapped my ass, calling me his "little snow bunny." "You love this black dick, don't you, Sarah? Say it." And I'd moan, "Yes, Daddy, I love it," my pussy clenching around him, juices dripping down his shaft. It was humiliating, but the orgasms were intense, shattering me in ways my ex-boyfriends never could.
Then the exploitation ramped up. Mathew wasn't content with just us. "To make it real, baby, we gotta go all in," he said one night, after fucking me senseless. He invited his crew over—five black rappers from his label, all built like gods, cocks bulging in their jeans. I protested at first, but Mathew whispered, "Do this for your freedom, slut. Marcus said it needs to look authentic." My heart raced as they circled me in the living room, stripping me down. I was on my knees, surrounded by throbbing black cocks, each one thicker than the last.
"Suck it, cop whore," one growled, shoving his meat into my mouth. I gagged, tears streaming, but Mathew held my head, forcing me deeper. They took turns, face-fucking me until my jaw ached, spit and pre-cum coating my chin. Then they bent me over the couch. The first one slammed into my pussy from behind, his balls slapping my clit as I cried out. "Tight white pussy," he grunted. Another filled my mouth, muting my moans. They rotated, pounding me raw—double penetration, one in my ass while another stretched my cunt. Pain mixed with pleasure, my body betraying me as I came hard, squirting on the floor. By the end, I was a cum-covered mess, their loads dripping from every hole, my blonde hair matted with seed.
Mathew filmed it all on his phone. "For memories," he laughed. But a week later, the tape "leaked" online. "Racist Cop Turns Interracial Slut!" went viral. Comments flooded in: "She's loving that BBC redemption arc." "From killer to cum dumpster—poetic justice." I was mortified, curled up in bed sobbing, but Marcus called it a win. "The narrative's shifting. You're not a racist; you're a reformed white girl who craves black men. Juries will eat it up."
The trial was a circus. Protesters outside chanted my name, but now with a twisted admiration. Marcus presented "evidence" of my transformation—photos of me with Mathew, snippets of the tape blurred for court. The black jurors nodded knowingly; even the judge seemed swayed. "Ms. Thompson shows remorse and integration," he said. Sentence reduced: probation, community service in black neighborhoods. I walked free, but at what cost?
Mathew dumped me right after, calling me "used goods." But the damage was done. The tape branded me forever. Men hit me up constantly—black guys wanting their "piece of the cop slut." I tried to go back to normal, but the cravings hit hard. Those gangbangs awakened something filthy in me. I'd masturbate to the memories, fingering myself to orgasm while imagining more cocks.
That's when Deon entered the picture—a slick black pimp with gold teeth and a stable of girls. He approached me at a bar, recognizing me from the tape. "You got potential, snowflake. Let me manage you. You'll make bank as the famous white whore." I should have run, but my pussy throbbed at the thought. He took me to his crib that night, testing the goods. "On your knees, bitch." I obeyed, sucking his veiny cock like a pro, deepthroating until he nutted down my throat. The taste—salty, thick—hooked me instantly.
Deon turned me out quick. He dressed me in skimpy outfits: micro skirts, fishnets, heels that screamed "fuck me." My first john was a group of black businessmen at a hotel. "Entertain them, cumslut," Deon ordered. I stripped teasingly, my pale skin glowing under the lights. They ravaged me—one in my mouth, one in my pussy, another in my ass. I screamed in ecstasy as they filled me, cum leaking everywhere. "More," I begged, my body on fire. Deon collected the cash, slapping my ass. "Good girl. You're mine now."
Nights blurred into orgies. Deon pimped me to rappers, athletes, gangsters—always black men, feeding the "interracial slut" myth. Gangbangs became routine: ten guys at a time, using me like a fleshlight. I'd be airtight, every hole stuffed, cum pouring out as I came over and over. The humiliation fueled my addiction; I'd lick it off the floor if they told me to. "You're a black-owned whore now, Sarah," Deon would say, tattooing "BBC Slut" on my ass.
I live for the cum now. It's my drug—the warm spurts on my face, in my womb, down my throat. I crave the degradation, the way they call me "pig" or "trash" while pounding me senseless. My old life? Gone. I'm Sarah the Cum Addict, exploited and loving it, a blonde puppet for black kings. And deep down, in the haze of orgasms, I wouldn't change a thing.
I never thought my life would spiral into this abyss, but here I am, Sarah Thompson, once a proud blonde cop in the heart of Chicago, now reduced to a quivering mess of need and shame. It all started with that fateful night shift. I was patrolling a dark alley, my heart pounding from the adrenaline of a reported break-in. The suspect lunged at me—or at least, that's what I thought in the split-second panic. My finger squeezed the trigger before I could process the face: a young black man, unarmed, just reaching for his wallet. The bullet hit him square in the chest. He died on the spot.
The media descended like vultures. "Racist Cop Kills Innocent Black Man!" screamed the headlines. Protests erupted outside the precinct, my face plastered everywhere as the poster child for security officer brutality. I was suspended, then arrested for manslaughter. My blonde hair and blue eyes made me the perfect villain in their narrative—the all-American white girl who embodied systemic racism. I wasn't racist; it was a tragic mistake, but no one cared. My world crumbled: friends ghosted me, family distanced themselves, and the hate mail poured in.
Enter my lawyer, Marcus Hale, a sharp-dressed black man with a reputation for getting tough cases dismissed. He was assigned pro bono, probably to make a statement. In his sleek office, he laid it out plain: "Sarah, the jury's gonna see you as a bigot. Evidence is damning, but perception is everything. We need to flip the script. Show you're not prejudiced—hell, show you embrace the community. Mingle with black men, date one publicly. Make it look genuine. It'll humanize you, reduce the sentence from years to probation."
I stared at him, my cheeks burning. "Date? Like, for real?" He nodded, his eyes lingering on my curves a second too long. "The more... intimate, the better. Leak some photos if you have to. Juries eat up redemption stories." I was desperate. Prison terrified me—orange jumpsuits, isolation, the end of my life. So I agreed. Marcus hooked me up with connections in the hip-hop scene. That's how I met Mathew.
Mathew "King Mat" Johnson was a rising rapper, tall, muscled, with dreads and tattoos that screamed street cred. He performed at underground clubs, spitting bars about overcoming the system. Marcus introduced us at a party, and Mathew's gaze devoured me from the start—my tight jeans hugging my ass, my low-cut top showing off my perky C-cups. "So you're the cop bitch everyone's talking about," he smirked, pulling me close. His hand grazed my thigh, and I shivered, a mix of fear and forbidden thrill. By the end of the night, we were making out in his VIP booth, his strong hands pinning me against the wall as his tongue invaded my mouth. He tasted like weed and whiskey, and I let him, telling myself it was for the case.
Our "relationship" escalated fast. Mathew paraded me around like a trophy—his white cop girlfriend, the ultimate flex. At first, it was exciting: lavish parties, expensive gifts, his massive cock stretching me out in his penthouse bed. I'd ride him reverse cowgirl, my blonde hair bouncing as he slapped my ass, calling me his "little snow bunny." "You love this black dick, don't you, Sarah? Say it." And I'd moan, "Yes, Daddy, I love it," my pussy clenching around him, juices dripping down his shaft. It was humiliating, but the orgasms were intense, shattering me in ways my ex-boyfriends never could.
Then came the Playboy offer. It hit my inbox out of nowhere—a scout had seen the buzz around me and Mathew, the "controversial couple." They wanted me for a spread: "From Badge to Bare—Sarah's Redemption." Tasteful nudes, they said, empowering women or some bullshit. I laughed it off at first, but Mathew's eyes lit up when I showed him. "This is perfect, baby. Show the world you're owning your shit—literally." He called Marcus right away, and the two of them ganged up on me in Mathew's living room. "Do it, Sarah," Marcus urged, his voice firm. "This'll seal the deal for the trial. Posing for Playboy? It's vulnerability, it's embracing sexuality. Juries will see you're not hiding—you're evolving." Mathew nodded, his hand squeezing my thigh possessively. "And it'll make me look good too, having a Playboy chick on my arm. You owe us this." I protested, my face flushing—me, a cop, baring it all? But they wore me down, threats of dropping the case or leaking more dirt if I refused. Desperation won; I signed the contract, my hands shaking.
The day of the shoot was a nightmare. We arrived at the studio—a sleek LA setup with lights, cameras, and a crew of mostly men smirking behind their equipment. Mathew insisted on coming, and Marcus tagged along "for legal oversight." The photographer started with lingerie shots, my body on display in skimpy black lace that barely covered my nipples or the trim of my pubic hair. But Mathew wasn't satisfied. "Nah, this ain't enough," he barked midway through, striding onto the set like he owned it. "Strip her all the way. Everyone needs to see that pink pussy from today on." My eyes widened in horror as he yanked off my thong, exposing me completely. The crew chuckled, phones subtly out—were they recording? "Mathew, please," I whimpered, crossing my legs, but he grabbed a razor from the makeup table. "Hold still, snow bunny. Time to shave you bald." He lathered me up right there, the cold foam making me gasp, then scbangd away every hair, his fingers "accidentally" brushing my clit until I was dripping wet despite the shame. The crew laughed outright now, catcalling: "Look at that cop cunt shine!" "She's loving it!" I stood there, bald and bare, my smooth vagina on full display, feeling like a piece of meat.
Overwhelmed, tears stinging my eyes, I turned and hugged Marcus for comfort—clinging to him naked, my bare breasts pressing against his suit. "Make it stop," I whispered, but he just held me tighter, his hands sliding down to grip my ass. "Shh, Sarah. This is part of it. Let me help you relax." The crew cleared out for a "break," but Mathew grinned, locking the door. "Yeah, Marcus, show her what real support looks like." Before I could process, Marcus pushed me onto a nearby couch, his pants dropping to reveal his thick black cock. "You've been teasing me since day one," he growled, flipping me onto all fours. Mathew watched, stroking himself, as Marcus lubed up and pressed against my virgin asshole. "No, not there!" I begged, but he thrust in slow and deep, the burn turning to a twisted fullness that made me moan involuntarily. "Take it, slut. This'll loosen you up for the shoot." He pounded my ass relentlessly, his balls slapping my shaved pussy, while Mathew filmed it. I came shamefully hard, my body betraying me again, anal virginity gone in a haze of pain and pleasure. They high-fived over my trembling form, cum leaking from my stretched hole.
The rest of the shoot? I posed like a pro—legs spread wide, fingers parting my bald lips, the camera capturing every inch. The issue flew off shelves: "Sarah's Bare Truth." It boosted the narrative— I was the reformed slut now, baring my soul (and more) for redemption.
Then the exploitation ramped up further. Mathew wasn't content with just us. "To make it real, baby, we gotta go all in," he said one night, after fucking me senseless. He invited his crew over—five black rappers from his label, all built like gods, cocks bulging in their jeans. I protested at first, but Mathew whispered, "Do this for your freedom, slut. Marcus said it needs to look authentic." My heart raced as they circled me in the living room, stripping me down. I was on my knees, surrounded by throbbing black cocks, each one thicker than the last.
"Suck it, cop whore," one growled, shoving his meat into my mouth. I gagged, tears streaming, but Mathew held my head, forcing me deeper. They took turns, face-fucking me until my jaw ached, spit and pre-cum coating my chin. Then they bent me over the couch. The first one slammed into my pussy from behind, his balls slapping my clit as I cried out. "Tight white pussy," he grunted. Another filled my mouth, muting my moans. They rotated, pounding me raw—double penetration, one in my ass (now broken in by Marcus) while another stretched my cunt. Pain mixed with pleasure, my body betraying me as I came hard, squirting on the floor. By the end, I was a cum-covered mess, their loads dripping from every hole, my blonde hair matted with seed.
Mathew filmed it all on his phone. "For memories," he laughed. But a week later, the tape "leaked" online. "Racist Cop Turns Interracial Slut!" went viral. Comments flooded in: "She's loving that BBC redemption arc." "From killer to cum dumpster—poetic justice." I was mortified, curled up in bed sobbing, but Marcus called it a win. "The narrative's shifting. You're not a racist; you're a reformed white girl who craves black men. Juries will eat it up."
The trial was a circus. Protesters outside chanted my name, but now with a twisted admiration. Marcus presented "evidence" of my transformation—photos of me with Mathew, snippets of the tape blurred for court, even the Playboy spread as "empowerment." The black jurors nodded knowingly; even the judge seemed swayed. "Ms. Thompson shows remorse and integration," he said. Sentence reduced: probation, community service in black neighborhoods. I walked free, but at what cost?
Mathew dumped me right after, calling me "used goods." But the damage was done. The tape and Playboy branded me forever. Men hit me up constantly—black guys wanting their "piece of the cop slut." I tried to go back to normal, but the cravings hit hard. Those gangbangs and the anal deflowering awakened something filthy in me. I'd masturbate to the memories, fingering myself to orgasm while imagining more cocks.
That's when Deon entered the picture—a slick black pimp with gold teeth and a stable of girls. He approached me at a bar, recognizing me from the tape and the magazine. "You got potential, snowflake. Let me manage you. You'll make bank as the famous white whore." I should have run, but my pussy throbbed at the thought. He took me to his crib that night, testing the goods. "On your knees, bitch." I obeyed, sucking his veiny cock like a pro, deepthroating until he nutted down my throat. The taste—salty, thick—hooked me instantly.
Deon turned me out quick. He dressed me in skimpy outfits: micro skirts, fishnets, heels that screamed "fuck me." My first john was a group of black businessmen at a hotel. "Entertain them, cumslut," Deon ordered. I stripped teasingly, my pale skin glowing under the lights. They ravaged me—one in my mouth, one in my pussy, another in my ass. I screamed in ecstasy as they filled me, cum leaking everywhere. "More," I begged, my body on fire. Deon collected the cash, slapping my ass. "Good girl. You're mine now."
Nights blurred into orgies. Deon pimped me to rappers, athletes, gangsters—always black men, feeding the "interracial slut" myth. Gangbangs became routine: ten guys at a time, using me like a fleshlight. I'd be airtight, every hole stuffed, cum pouring out as I came over and over. The humiliation fueled my addiction; I'd lick it off the floor if they told me to. "You're a black-owned whore now, Sarah," Deon would say, tattooing "BBC Slut" on my ass.
I live for the cum now. It's my drug—the warm spurts on my face, in my womb, down my throat. I crave the degradation, the way they call me "pig" or "trash" while pounding me senseless. My old life? Gone. I'm Sarah the Cum Addict, exploited and loving it, a blonde puppet for black kings. And deep down, in the haze of orgasms, I wouldn't change a thing.
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