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La Grande Illusion (French Cream)

French women have always had a very specific and intense reputation and lustre. A certain Je Ne Sais Quoi stored within and around them. Something about their accents and the shape of their bodies, from their shoulders down to their heels. It all spoke so invitingly, even if the woman in question didn’t. French women were the most “European” of all European women. So much so that to knock down a French woman would be the same to some as knocking down the entire European race, the woman of which were typical to those who lived amongst them, yet exotic to those who lived in places that they rarely dared to venture. France was the country where the energetic wave of the Andalusian Moor invasion broke and receded back past the Pyrenees, French men fighting and dying to keep their wives’, daughters’, and mothers’ soft white flesh safe from the dark hands and pelvises of African and Semitic stock.

The Spanish and Portuguese women that lived behind those peaks, on that peninsula that hung so haphazardly to the rest of Europe, weren’t so lucky. Neither were the women in Sicily or the heel and toe of Italy. And centuries after that brave Frankish counter-push in Western Europe, the women of Greece would know the shape of the Turkish phallus just as intimately as the men found out the shape of the Turkish scimitar. Both were curved for maximum damage to their respective targets.

Many an Arab cock, balls, and thighs were serviced by the pink tongues of whimpering European maidens, from peasants up to royalty, the soul receivers of the brunt of it, appropriately fleshy, were women of Mediterranean and Slavic stock. The remnants of this turn still perceivable in the humdrum of the European day, whether explicitly in the Mosques and Hijabs of Bosnia and Kosovo, or implicitly through the shapeliness of the Italian woman’s bosom and ass, which stood enhanced through minor interjections of Mohamaden seed in the once purely Italic gene pool, a testament to the potential force of non-white genetic material on the ever-malleable Indo-European genome.

You looked up at the painting that took up the lion share of the wall behind him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” your boss asked you, looking up at it. “Look at that white ass.”

You said nothing, but you looked up at it, it’s beauty framed in classy gold.

“Remind you of anyone?” he asked, wryly.

You blushed, but you said nothing.

“It’ll happen again one day,” he said. “I know it will. I just hope I’m still around for it.” He was in his late 40’s. Originally from New York. He spoke French with a thick American accent. He had quit his job as an investment banker, using his savings to open-up an art studio, the upstairs office of which you were sitting in now, hiring some of the best, most interesting, and iconoclastic artists in Paris, of all conceivable stripes, to work for him. From painters to sculptors, to playwrights, musicians, and photographers, he had someone to cover every and all bases.

He stood up and went to the window. Looking down at the streets he said “man, there’s tons of them down there now. Five years ago just one of them would have turned heads. Now they just sit down there at the benches and wait for the models at Luc’s to come out.” He turned to look at you, smiling. Then he looked back down at the street below. “They love seeing that light skin. The girls always walk faster whenever they see them though. And they never make eye contact. Even when their boyfriends or dads come to pick them up, they’re in and out.”

You looked up at the painting next to his head.

He looked back down at you, then up at the painting. Then he said “Would you call yourself a proud Frenchman?” while still examining the figures and landscape within its frame.

You were looking at the back of his head. “Sure,” you said. “I would say so.”

“Good,” he said. “It’s good to be proud of your people.”

You sat there, not moving. He looked back out the window.

“What is France to you?” he asked.

You sat for a second, unsure of how to answer. “I don’t know.”

He put his mid-finger knuckle up to the glass. “Is France a people or an idea?”

He would always find it funny the way you struggled to answer what he thought were simple questions without caveats or clarification. “I guess it can be both.”

“Both?” he asked, turning around to look at you, grinning. Then he turned back and looked out the window. “I think France is an ass.”

You immediately heard it and thought it was a mistake, or the product of his broken French, but when he turned to look at you again, grinning slyly, you knew that the use of that word was precise.

“The shape of it,” he said. “It’s tone and hue. I’m a big admirer of the French ass, as you know.”

You blushed a little bit again.

“Here,” he said. “I have something to show you. As he went back for his desk chair, he crossed past another of his paintings.

“You know how much I love spy videos,” he said, as he opened up his Macbook. “Come around here, I want to show you something.”

He opened up a porn site with an English name, and said “look what this joker got himself up to. The sly devil.”

You could hear through echoey voices in that room or facility, which were dampened by the sonic pillow of water hitting linoleum, that the video had been taken in France. All you could see was a white roof, overexposed by sunlight likely drifting in through a window overhead, and the side of a grey steel partition, filmed from below. The shot then drifted slowly, shaking with caution, and now you were seeing the underside of the partition. The shot completely lifeless and mechanical but for the mist of water. Just material shaped by man for the banal purpose of providing a bare minimum of privacy to one within a room full of many.

That cold image was suddenly transformed within the bubble of a second, when suddenly the shakily drifting shot caught its point for existing. Warm, beige flesh filled the frame, from the shapely calves of the video’s unknowing subject, up the back of her thighs, which were so thick and inviting that you knew in that instant that she had been selected as the cameraman’s muse before he had even stepped foot into that shower room; up to her large and round, but responsibly proportioned white ass, which stood there, staring down through its butt-crack at the camera that violated its privacy, having no tongue to warn the unaware face of the woman it was attached to, the back of which you saw her long brunette hair falling behind her, thick with shampoo which spilled liberally down her back and onto the welcoming bubble of her ass, which still looked down at its unwanted admirer, the shampoo being the closest thing to egg on its face, dripping down its cheeks with no recourse to wiping it off. Its slight pinkish-red hue like the cheeks of an embarrassed face, it being caught in its unguarded sexiness and humiliation.

The woman attached to that ass rubbed the shampoo through her hair with her fingers, oblivious to her ass being witnessed, both by the cameraman and by you. Oblivious to the end of her privacy forevermore. The partition, which cut the shot in two, being her false sense of security. An obstacle which only allowed the power of the moment through its sheer existence. You could vaguely make out the top of a head on the other side, silhouetted in the huddled shadow of the partition, belonging to the hand which held the camera.

And while you couldn’t see the face of the target, you could tell that the genetic ancestors of the shape of her body wouldn’t have been able to exist for long without being scraped up by the most attractive of male suitors, if not downright ravaged, leading to a generational comingling of face and body ensuring that the two would match and go toe-to-toe the way running water did with and alongside grass and foliage.

Your boss pointed at the ensoaped ass. “France,” he said. “That’s her.”

You heard an older woman’s voice in the background telling her son to always wash behind his ears, bringing life to the image. The room, intersected by a web of partitions, contained many people, though none knew the dynamic that was now happening between and underneath the partition between these two, cameraman and muse. On the other side of the room, likely a man, his head bald, with no ability to determine that history was being made in the same room he stood in, with the same source of water, split between all, being used to lather a head and body that was now being feasted on by the tiny eye of a cell phone camera, which was just brave enough to barely poke itself three-fourths of the way into her square of space. All in the room as oblivious as all others, except for one.

The image shook under the weight of its own majesty. The tiny corner of the phone quaint and innocuous near and underneath the intimidating shape of her being, the very splashing of her bare-foot steps on the linoleum sending spray into the frame. The ass and camera locking eyes. The camera filling itself with the ass’s essence, gaining in value and sentimentality with its very presence beneath it. Her fingers were at the top of her head, rubbing her scalp deliberately through her brunette hair, all awash and thick with white. Even over the sound of running water and echoing voices you could hear the sound made from the interplay between her hair, her shampoo, and her white fingers and thumbs all rubbing through and past one another.

“Yes, rinse up madame,” your boss said. “Look how squeaky clean she is. Are you hard?”

You nodded your head.

“I’ll send you the video later then.”

You exhaled audibly, almost deliberately knowing that it was what he wanted to hear from you.

“You like that?” he asked. “Look. Forty-thousand views. All of a twenty-something French girl washing her hair. Men in Morocco and India are looking at it just like you and me. They’ve never even seen a live white woman before, and now they have this one in their living rooms soaping herself up for them on their harddrives. Is that wonderful or what?”

“Yeah,” you said. You started to rub your crotch with your thumb and forefinger.

“The French body is the best in the world,” he said, speaking as an impassioned outsider. “Look at that bubble of soap go down that crack. Just perfect. Now look at it hanging from that bottom. It’s like her ass has an idea.”

White soap leaked down between her cheeks as if her butt was dribbling saliva. The flow of the miniature river rounded the bubble at the bottom of her crack, not violating its perfection by popping it, but rather sidestepping its pocket of air, and continuing its path down the underside of her left cheek, and then cutting a new path downward along the back of her thigh. More soapy water fell from her hair as she rinsed it violently, falling straight down from the brunette tail, hair held in an impromptu pony-tail entirely by the weight of the shampoo which ran through it, which hung just below her shoulders, and landing with a dripping noise further left on her cheek than the previous running white line, overtaking it in the race down to her calf and heel. She stepped forward with her left foot, only slightly, causing the falling cascade starting from her hair to drip messily all over her left cheek, which was now in motion, catching soapy white suds beautifully along a large horizontal distance, the point of contact dimpling as it went left.

This sudden movement drew the camera back within the safety of its own stall, and now, replaced by the pink-white flesh of the shot’s careless subject, was a startled black face, its eyes wide in anxious thrill and alert. The video ending on the closeup shot of his black cheek. It was then that you realized he was down on his hands and his knees for the opportunity at the shot he must have then knew at that point, due to the continuing sound of scrubbing beyond the partition that separated them, he had safely captured. Even at that point, not a single person on the planet had known what he captured except for him. The target’s family sitting in Paris or Lyon had no clue that their daughter’s, sister’s, cousin’s, niece’s image sat within the circuit board of an African man’s phone. You could imagine him in that instance, clinging to the floor, looking at the screen of his phone, which had made its journey there and back, and now sat with him, safe and holy. He had saved up, paycheck after paycheck, for nine months to get that phone. And it had now proven to be much more than a worthy investment. His only priority now, likely, was to keep it from getting wet, so he could safely send what he had just filled its belly with to those he knew back home in Cameroon or Mali, who would huddle around its light in astonishment. Their black faces awash in the white, grey and beige that shone up at them.

“It’s not often you get to see the culprit,” your boss said. “It’s good enough that he’s black. It’s good enough that he’s ugly. But being both makes it perfect. Even more,” he said, as if it just occurred to him. “She’s the perfect specimen. It’s like he came here and picked out a model from our studio. The hot girl-next-door type whose butt always has at least one set of eyes on it at all time.” He pointed at the finished video when he said that as if it were still playing. “Except try to find a model we have that looks that innocent, even from behind. I don’t even know what sweetheart looks like and I’m already in love. Do we have anyone like that?”

You looked at him, as if to mention someone, but you stopped yourself. You massaged your dick through your pants. Your boss was no artist, but he had the instincts of one. He could see exactly why this video was a cut above all the rest. The rattling frame. The shapely body of the target, her soapy hair, back, and buttocks, the sounds of life reverberating around that room, now frozen in digital amber. The tiny steps on wet linoleum. The Dutch angle and the frame within a frame made by the partition. The brunette hair hanging over that wet back. The adorable movements of her body, impossible to reproduce even with the best talent at hand. And the secret star of the work, that face, black, ugly, and poised for the best and worst, which sat in stark and mocking contrast to her: white, beautiful, and relaxed in her own privacy and ease. You could know for a fact that he was the only black man or woman in that room, surrounded on all sides by French flesh and minds, him shaking amongst and beneath it all, wide-eyed in the belly of the beast. And he left it all, not only unscathed, but with a souvenir. Not just one for his own sentimental heart, but one for the world entire to share in, putting all on the same level, with no dividing line between class, beauty, race, country, or even space or time itself.

His first few steps back out into the embrace of the sun and dewfresh air must have been the most rewarding of his entire life. And you knew that your boss, whether he could articulate it or not, had seen all of that. And that’s why you were there, witnessing it with him before anyone else.

He looked down at your hands working their magic on yourself, and he rolled his eyes. “Oh come on,” he said. “We’re all artists here,” and then he grabbed the zipper of your pants and pulled it down. He reached into the gap and massaged your shaft through your underwear, probing to see if he could pull it out. When he realized her couldn’t, he unbuttoned your pants and pulled down your underwear, and when he got hold of your throbbing and naked member, he began to rub his fingers over it with his left hand as he ran his right hand up and down the side of your butt, thighs, and lower torso. “Did your mom ever find out you were in one of Gaston’s shoots?”

“My mom doesn’t know about Gaston’s shoots,” you said.

You thought about the thrill and uncomfortable worm in your stomach as you stood around at the expo 8 months back with a glass of white wine in your hand, as people looked up at your one and only foray in front of the camera, where you sat naked from the waist down with a I Love Paris t-shirt on your skinny chest, the soles of your bare feet, full and white, facing the camera, as you jerked off perfectly in focus, as an out-of-focus close-up of a white girl’s ass sat bent over on an opposing bed, being fucked from behind by a jet black pelvis. The look of your face embarrassed you, not having very many opportunities to witness your own image in a state of uncaring bliss.

“You look beautiful,” you heard from behind you, as a delicate hand pressed your lower back. You turned to see Dominique standing next to you in her burgundy dress and white wine in a thin-necked glass. “It’s the soles that do it. Gaston is a master of them. Is it true he begged you to let him shoot you for a month?”

“It’s true,” you said.

“Well,” she said. “Maybe you should consider modelling full-time if you ever get tired of snapping your own photos.”

“I like shooting,” you said.

“It figures,” she said. “No shots flatter my ass as good as yours do. It’s like you’re a miracle worker.” She pointed up at your ecstatic image, which was in black and white and blown up to three times your actual size. “But I guess you now know what it’s like to be made beautiful by a camera.”

“It makes me uncomfortable,” you said.

“It makes everyone uncomfortable the first time. But trust me, there’s a reason why Gaston chose that photo for the main exhibit. And there’s a reason why you’re in focus in it and me and Obyn aren’t.” She looked down over her shoulder at her own backside. “Maybe if I had an ass like Rachel, I’d be the prime showcase today.”

“You have a great ass,” you assured her.

“Oh, stop it,” she said, and looked up at you with one eyebrow raised.


“You’re going to act like we don’t all know.”

You blushed. “I… what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Either way, tonight you’re coming to my room. Deal?”

“Sure,” you said.

“I want to get acquainted with those beautiful soles. You’re going to get the toe-sucking of a lifetime.”

“It sounds amazing.”

“Just me and you tonight though, no friends.”

“What friends?”

She lifted her eyebrow again, wryly. “Stop it.”

“She happened to be with me that night. I couldn’t leave her.”

“You couldn’t leave her? That’s more true than you know.”

You looked back up at the image sitting across from you and your boss. “My mom’s seen some of what I shot, but only with the models alone. Never with the guys in them.”

“That’s good,” your boss said, still tugging on you at the same rate. “Can I tell you something?” he asked, and then he blew cool air into the tip of your cock.

“Yeah, of course,” you said.

“That little savage there,” he said, and pointed to his screen again. “I put him on the payroll.”

“Oh?” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“That’s good.”

He took a breath as if he was about to say something that he needed more strength than currently available to him to push out. “He’s the finest photographer I have.”

You felt a pang in your heart. So much so that you started to soften up between his fingers.

When he could feel it, he began to get annoyed. “Don’t act like I haven’t given you more than a small chance.”

You blushed.

“You still have the stuff I gave you over a year ago. I had to go see the Tunisians by the river to get it. They make Harlem look like a walk in the park.”

You didn’t know what to say.

“I’m putting stills from his video in our April Exhibit. It will be pushing the line, but I already got Veronique to pretend she was the model in case we face flack. I want to call it Crossing Under the Mediterranean. Even if we’re forced to pretend its fake, we’ll still get copycats.”

You sat there, biting the inside of your cheek.

“I know it upsets you,” he said. “But like I’ve always been saying, you had the power to be my star. You shot our best piece.” He pointed at the wall before you.

Below the image was a nameplate that just said Joan of Arc.

“Our best piece until now,” he said and sighed. “Do you see what I mean when I say that France is an ass?”

When you looked back at him, even he was shocked to see tears in your eyes.

“Listen,” he said, his voice softer now. “There’s no shame in putting your mom’s honor before your work. You have the talent, but you don’t have the ability to fully disappear into your art. Country and family comes first. That’s an honorable thing.”

You shut your eyes, and a big tear rolled down your cheek.

That made it harder for him to say what he had to say next. “And now I regret to inform that I’m going to have to ask you for the position of every window in your house, a copy of your key, the code to any security systems you may or may not have, your mom’s workhours and habits. I’m going to be sending the new guy to do anything he can to get shots of your mom in her private moments. I want the real

French experience. Not professional models and soundstages. I want a mother of three, not even knowing she’s being filmed, bending over to pull up her stockings in her own bedroom. I want a twenty-five year old just fresh out of college, getting pulled drunk behind a dumpster as her boyfriend looks for her inside, and… you know where I’m going with this. We’ve talked about it before. That’s the future.

You sniffled in your seat.

He took a deep sigh, and then began talking, almost as if he didn’t want to say what was coming next, though knowing it was necessary. “I know you already know, but if you try to make a fuss over your mom’s privacy and honor to any of the wrong people, we will be giving them all our information on the things you’ve done for us as well. I know I don’t really need to be saying this. You’re the last person I’d ever expect to burn me. But you never know.”

You snorted back more tears.

“Sorry. You know I don’t mean anything by it. Just being careful.” He looked at the sky through his window. Then he stopped to think. “Is the shower at your place one of those glass ones, or is it a curtain? I like the idea of sending him into the bathroom so he can peak into the shower with his phone. It would evoke the thought of a home invasion, a black man standing on the other side of your curtain and you don’t even know. His camera sneaking up behind you and catching your French ass and you have no idea. And he’s gone as fast as he came. We know he’s ballsy enough for it.”

He can feel your cock harden in his fingers.

“I knew you’d like that,” he said. “I know and recognize that you have that gift to be able to see the beauty in it, even if your loyalty meant more to you. Please tell me that you won’t quit.”

You shook your head in the affirmative.

“You won’t?” he asked, ensuring he understood what you meant.

You shook your head to say no. “I won’t quit,” you said. “This is the best job I’ve ever had.” That sentence falling from your lips caused your face to scrunch up, and the salty warmth from tears washed over your cheeks.

“Good man,” he said, and tapped you on your shoulder. “Would you like me to take care of you to completion?”

He reached for his drawer with his other hand and pulled out lube, then he squeezed the bottle out onto your cock liberally and began to start massaging it in. “Get nice and hard ford daddy,” he said.

As you sat there, groaning pleasurably, watching your penis being kneeded and massaged with expert care, the intercom crackled with a female voice. “Larry? The two blacks from America are here.” You looked up at the photo of the receptionist as you listened to her voice come through the little box on the desk.

You felt a warmth in your chest, shoulders, and face. You felt it every time you looked at it.

“Yes, let them in,” your boss said, and he picked up the pace on your cock, massaging your balls with one set of fingers, and twisting up over the head of your penis and back down again with the other hand. He understood all the many nuances of the male prick and had learned with time exactly how to charm it, his fingers almost supernatural in their ability to be at the right section of flesh at exactly the right time.

After a few moments of tugging and massaging, whispering huskily “daddy loves this prick, the two Black-Americans came in. They stopped dead in their tracks, looking golem-like in their sturdy posture, when they saw what was happening.

“Just wait a minute, fellas,” he said in English. “Just trying to milk my cow right now.”

“White faggots,” one of the men murmured under his breath, only making you harder.

You spread your thighs out more, eager to embarrass yourself as much as possible in front of them. You looked into their eyes. They looked down at your cock and balls which were been rubbed and tugged by your boss’s surprisingly soft left hand while his right hand massaged the crevices between your testicles and inner thigh.

You looked up at the wall.

“Stop,” you said.

“What?” your boss asked indignantly, continuing at the same pace, not wanting to listen.

“Stop,” you said again, and you stood up, causing your glistening cock to hang suspended in air, swaying, like an unfinished bridge.

He grabbed at you as you backed off, only catching your tip. “Come back to daddy,” he said in English. And then in French he said “we need to show these gentleman what French culture looks like.”

“I need to go,” you said, and you poked out your butt to pull your penis away from his fingers. You grabbed your pants from your ankles and began to pull them up as you waddled off, your exposed white ass exciting him, making him wonder if your mother’s was the same shade of white. And he never could stop thinking about what the soles of your mom’s feet looked like after he had seen yours in Gaston’s photo.

“Suit yourself,” he said in English. You awkwardly shuffled past the giant onyx sculptures that stared you down with equal parts fascination and disgust, as you struggled to pull your pants and underwear up over your kneecaps. “Just to let you know,” Larry said. “Rachel isn’t going to finish you off. I’ve paid her forty-grand to never touch a white man again.”

“I know,” you said, stoically. “It’s not that.” You left the room with your pants still around your lower thighs.

One of the black guys looked at the doorway, then her turned away and snorted. Until his eye caught something on the wall. He looked up, pointed with his palm facing upwards, and said “Nice pictures.”

You shuffled out into the reception area, and you saw a barely-familiar black face. It took you a moment to place it, but when it did, it was the flashback of it coming into the middle of a frame to replace that soapy white ass. He looked almost as mousy and anxious now than he did in the video that caused Mr. Bernstein to contact him in the first place. He stared down at Rachel with his eyes wide. She was looking up at him, looking slightly perturbed.

When she saw your white, glistening prick in her peripheral she turned and said “Oh, I can’t do anything about that. Larry is paying me to not touch white guys. I had to call things off with my fuck-buddy over it.”

“No, no,” you said, and you pulled your pants and underwear up entirely and began to zip up. “Larry was just trying to work me up to suck his cock again. He thinks I’ll keep falling for it.”

“Jesus,” she said. “And I already took care of him this morning.”

“I thought he said no whites.”

She grinned at you. “I think he means white-white.”

“How convenient,” you said.

Rachel laughed, and then she looked up at the new talent. “Sorry, Mr. Bernstein is in a meeting with some other models. Can I just ask you to sit over there?”

He looked over at the chair in the corner next to the stack of interracial porn magazines on an end table. Then back at her.

“That’s the one,” she said.

He turned and shuffled over to the chair and sat down.

As you walked past the front desk, Rachel grabbed the sleeve of your shirt and pulled you close. She motioned with her eyes towards the new guy, back and forth quickly as to not be noticed, and said quietly “Is Larry expecting me to fuck that?”

“No,” you said. “He’s a photographer.”

“Oh!” she said, brightening up. “Is he any good.”

You felt a bitterness in your mouth, knowing that you couldn’t help but tell the truth. “Yeah,” you said. “Larry says he’s the best he’s ever seen.”

“What!?” she said, with so much intent and volume that the new guy looked over. “But you’re the best photographer.”

You looked down at the floor. “Larry says he’s even better.”

“What? Really?”


“Oh.” She thought for a second. “Why? What has he shot?”

“Just some things,” you said, wanting to get past it.

“But it’s better than anything else?”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that her ass had been dethroned in Mr. Bernstein’s mind by the ass of a complete stranger, a woman he didn’t even know the name and face of. “No, no,“ you said. “I think it’s more that Larry sees his potential.”

“Oh,” she said, relieved. “Maybe. I mean, I really can’t see it. I don’t think there’s any better photographer than you.” Then she grabbed your hand.

You looked down into her eyes. She giggled and looked away. “Then again, I’m biased. You practically made me into a star. I had no idea what I had until I seen your first photographs of me. I hadn’t even picked up on it when my uncle kept looking for reasons to spank me long after I was way too old for it. But when I seen that black hand on my cheek, it all clicked for me.” She looked back up at you. “You have no idea what that’s like.”

“I do,” you said.

“Oh, yeah,” she giggled. “It made Dominique into quite the fan. You hang out with her recently?”

“No,” you said. “It’s been a while actually.”

“Maybe you should call her if you want someone to handle that thing,” she said, and pointed down at your crotch. The new guy watched her as she did. “If you can deal with the twenty-minute foot massage first.”

Her hand was soft in yours. It was a shame about Mr. Bernstein’s new rule for her, but even if it weren’t the case, you’d still pass today. “Okay,” you said. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she said. “I have a shoot tomorrow though. So if Jacqueline’s sitting here instead, come down and see me in studio 3.”

“Sure,” you said. “And if Mr. Bernstein asks, tell him I’ll send him the info he asked for tonight.”

“Will do,” she said, and waved goodbye playfully. “And say hello to your big-assed mom for me.”

You blushed. You could feel warmth in your chest. She loved to tease you about that. Mr. Bernstein must have talked about your mom a lot, even when you weren’t around. “I will,” you said. Rachel, you thought. You’ll be getting to know her soon enough.

As you backed up towards the door, you looked over to see the new guy looking at you, wide-eyed. Then you looked back up at Rachel, seeing her still smiling at you, you backed out into the hallway.


The camera hung from a strap around his neck. There was a time when standing in a neighborhood like this would have brought too much unwanted attention. But now people like him were common, even in areas like this one. He had the right address. He slowly walked up to the house. The key was in his pocket, should he choose to use it. His mouth was dry and he was drenched with sweat.

He didn’t dare approach the front door. He was now covered from the sidewalk by the tree in front of his target’s house. Only a neighbor looking out at a very specific angle would have seen him there. He looked in through the front window. The living room was empty.

The furniture was very nice, modern looking, almost avant garde, like so much in this country he was coming to understand the nuts and bolts of. In the background was a giant dining room with a bowl in the middle filled with fruits and a half-empty glass of red wine sat off to the side. Behind it, on the wall, there stood an image of a pretty French woman in a dress. He had seen that photo back at the studio in a book. But in the series it belonged to, that French woman didn’t stay in her dress for long. If his target knew about the rest of the series, would she have hung that image on the wall like that, proud of her son’s work, knowing where it all lead to?

He took a few photos of the barren living room with the camera Mr. Bernstein had given him. He had practiced in the park earlier, taking pictures of large-hat-wearing milfs from a distance, not being accustomed to such professional equipment and needing to learn quickly. He felt the same 1-2 punch of anxiety and thrill that he felt when he slipped into that shower unit at the campground. When he slipped the camera under the stall, and he saw that naked French flesh, which he had previously seen galivanting around during the middle of the day in jean shorts, the kind that was entirely off limits to him, his only thought was that he had finally done it. He couldn’t have known in the end that it would lead to an opportunity like this.

He rounded the corner of the house, and he went into the backyard. He took pictures of his target’s garden, the trowel still sticking out of the dirt between tomato plants. He entered the shed, and he took pictures of what was mostly useless junk. He saw a bicycle sitting there, and he remembered being told that bicycling was a hobby of hers. He knelt down and sniffed the seat, but it smelled like nothing.

When he came back into the light, he looked over at the patio. The patio table sat there with an umbrella overhead. A pack of cigarettes sat on the table next to an ashtray. An empty flip flop lay on its side underneath. He took a few more photos. He wondered about the French foot that that sat atop the soul of that flip flop. His first and only target had been a young adult, such as himself. But now he was looking to catch a full-blown woman in his snares. A French woman at that. His understanding of French women came in the flavor of Catherine Deneuve, his grandmother’s favorite actress back in Sierra Leone. Was that what he would be capturing? He felt a sense of intimidation. He couldn’t believe he had been chosen for this job. But now that he knew he had, he felt a sense of duty.

As he went toward the patio, he heard the sound of running water. It was coming from a window. His breath stopped. He slowly inched toward the window, and when he got close, confirming that running water was coming from within, he lifted his camera to get a view inside.

But as he did, he noticed that he couldn’t get much of anything. He heard the sound of feet against the concave porcelain of the tub, but the frosted window offered no lucid view. Only a blur of light beige which twirled and shifted to the sounds of squeaking porcelain. He felt discouraged at first, imagining what it would be like if he were only separated from her by an aluminum partition that went down to his ankles like last time. But then he remembered the key in his pocket. He looked over at the backdoor. If he had to enter from anywhere, it should be there.

He could feel his heart rising to his throat as he approached the door. He grabbed the handle in his hands, and then he pulled out his key and pushed it into the slot. It was a perfect fit. And when he turned the knob, the door fell open. He knew he was about to enter a home quite unlike any he had been inside before. His house back in Sierra Leone was nowhere near as polished or big. And here he lived in a loud apartment block by the river with his parents, which was owned by an unresponsive Algerian landlord. He pushed open the door to silence. All quiet but the distant sound of running water. He stepped inside cautiously, feeling the exact same sensation running through him as he felt on that day when he crossed into that stall next to that whistling white girl, knowing that her naked body waited there for him, should he choose to let the wandering eye of his camera cross that partition.

He looked up the stairs into the kitchen. On that table was another bowl of fruits. He slowly stepped his way upwards. The kitchen had two exits. In one of them, the sounds from the bathroom came in. When he reached the top, he could see the front door through the second kitchen exit to his right. It was only now starting to sink in that he was an African immigrant walking directly into the home of a French woman. Even living in France for over two years now, he still held the people, unwittingly, even frustratingly, on a divine pedestal. Even though he knew all people were equal in a very fundamental way, and he knew that very few in this country would disagree with that, it was as if they projected some sort of superiority without even trying or being aware of it. The history of France’s place in the world, as opposed to much of Africa, including the places in Africa where French boots stood ringing out dust under the bang of French rifles, lent itself to this sense of France and the French people being untouchable, in the same way that it was always psychologically harder to add dirt to that which was always pristine, as if sullying that which was lucky enough to be unsullied up to that point were the same as destroying it, even as all around it was caked in mud.

As he looked at the front door, thinking about what the Paris streets, alleys, and parks beyond it would think, something caught his eye. He looked over to see brown hair hanging off the headrest of the white couch that sat in front of the window. Its occupied seat faced away and into the house. Had there been someone laying there the whole time? He wouldn’t have been able to see them from the window.

He still heard the sound of running water and flesh on porcelain in the bathroom. He leaned over to peak more, but as he did, he heard a clicking noise at the front door. He looked over to see two brown splotches through the frosted glass. He moved quickly in the opposite direction, toward the exit closest to the hallway. But that’s when he heard the running water stop. He froze. And then he looked at the kitchen table, a bushel of bananas sitting mixed with an assortment of other fruits on top, and he suddenly ducked down and went underneath.

When the front door opened. He heard two voices. They were speaking in a language that he could barely understand, though it sounded familiar to him. At the same time, the bathroom door opened up and he heard someone coming down the hallway. He saw bare white legs pass the kitchen door.

“You guys made it,” he heard someone say in French.

The two deep voices responded with something, possibly in English. He heard them moving with heavy steps more toward the direction of the couch. He slowly crawled out from beneath the table and peaked out into the living room.

He then saw a naked French man standing there, with his bare ass towards him. And two large black man standing near the white couch he was looking at earlier, the one closest to the window. Though what was on the couch was hard to make out from where he sat on his knees, due to the white furniture in his field of vision.

One thing was for sure though. The naked and wet French man had two things of interest. A camera and an erection.

You stood in the bathtub as water fell over you, lathering your balls up with soap. You couldn’t believe it worked. Your mom lay pantless on the couch in the living room, with her French butt cheeks waiting there, as the indifferent sun moved through the sky. On the street outside, cars passed by oblivious about what was about to happen to that nude Marie Antoinette that lay on that couch. Her daily glass of white wine stood half-empty on the dining room table. Only one flip-flop sat on the ground next to her, the other one lost somewhere between the patio out back where she passed out, and the couch where you placed her and stripped her rump nude.

Your mom’s French bottom, in its creamy white glory, was completely nude for you for the first time then. Contrary to what one might expect from a European family, you had never been nude in the same room with your mom before. She kept her ass guarded, as if knowing its nature. When you saw it before you, you imagined the ass of a Frankish ancestor, immigrating to these wild pastures with her life on her back behind the glimmering spear tip of Charlemagne, in much harsher times, when these lands were no different than those that stood in the third world with lives within that were nasty, brutish, and short, even now.

They had French girls in America, but they weren’t French, no matter what a piece of paper regarding their DNA results said. There was something missing. It may have been the accent and the affectations that came with living under the clouds and sunshine of this country, but it wasn’t just that. There was something different about the faces of women here. Something different about their shape and hue. Something different about their bodies. If your two approaching American houseguests had ever fucked a French girl back home, some girl from Connecticut named Anne with the last name LeBlanc, which she herself pronounced as LeBlaync, it wasn’t the genuine article. Her body and soul had been beaten out of shape by the New World’s hills and rivers, that certain I-don’t-know-what sucked out of her as if these Gallic lands were the crucible which allowed it to form and reform in the first place, and every step away from them meant a step away from retaining that essence. If these black gentlemen wanted to taste the cheese and wine of French flesh, now was their one and only chance. It lie sitting on your couch, beckoning with its inertness.

When you heard a sound, you stopped and stood under the warm jets of water. And then when you reached for the faucet handle and heard the front door open, you knew that your guests had arrived.

You got out of the shower, not bothering to towel-up or put on clothes, and you grabbed your camera off the edge of the sink and you headed out, leaving footprints like condensation on the hardwood. When you saw them standing there, two black giants who would normally only look at home outside of the plus-sign shaped housing projects of Queens as Shook Ones Part II played out of some distant boombox and young men sold drugs in the open, they looked at you with the same intrigue and disgust as they had when they seen you a few days earlier in Mr. Bernstein’s office. The same way that would at some shameless beast in the zoo. Shameless was the right word. You knew that deep down it was these hidden crevices within the body of French society that they really desired to see, as hidden from view as the labyrinthian catacombs that went below this very house or your mom’s butthole shielded from the warmth of the sun by her large, warmth-stealing buttcheeks.

“You guys made it.”

“Will you look at that white girl!” one of them exclaimed in English. “We about to do the dougie on this frog’ ass.”

“Ohh, she built for black. Wait ‘til we tell the niggas back home about this. Shit, they’ll be getting green cards like a muhfucka.”

You had trouble understanding their dialect. But you pointed at your mom and said in English “Fuck ass.” Her ass sat there, exposed and defenseless, ready for action.

“Shit, if only we had this nigga working as a guide at the Eiffel Tower. This is how you treat niggas. Not all frustrated and shit.”

“I’m about to stick the Eiffel tower in her ass.”

You watched as they took their pants off. You were no stranger to black cock, having taken hundreds of photos of them in and around young French women in your day, watching it stuff their holes and slap the cheeks of their face. But much like how French American woman were different from women in France, African American men had very little in common with the African immigrants you were used to working with. You began to stroke as you watched them get naked, exposing the black-purple flesh of their thighs and buttocks just feet from the creamy white soles of your mom’s feet.

“I told you these French niggas is faggots,” one of them said, as he pointed down at your throbbing white dick.

You knew the flavor of the statement, even if you couldn’t translate it within your head, word for word, so you poked out your cock even more as if to say “I don’t know what it is you think about me. But rest assured, it’s even worse than that.”

“Nah, he ain’t gay,” said the other one. “Just European. Now watch me go Napoleon on this bitch.”

You lifted your camera from your chest and snapped photos as he approached her. He kicked her flip flop out of the way. “Let’s get this white girl shit out of here.”

If there was one thing you knew about black Africans, they weren’t big fans of any sort of foreplay, unlike Arabs, who loved to kneel down and kiss and eat the majesty of a white woman’s ass before entering it, seeing the glory given it by the hand of God, no different in its majesty to that of besparkled waters of the Tigris or Euphrates during magic hour. In this one area, African Americans and Africans retained the same pragmatic essence, viewing the female body, even that which belonged to the beloved white woman, as something to use as urgently as possible, without wasting even seconds to poetic verse or scientific theorizing, seconds which delayed gratification. Black men worked faster than any other because of this philosophy, or lack thereof. Closing the gap between introduction and penetration in a way that no other race of men could compete with, turning the women of any area they migrated to, regardless of race or culture, as long as they could break down that holy taboo, into a first-come-first-serve commodity, mere sloppy seconds for the men of their own race, who struggled to see them the same ever again even as they tried desperately anyway with furrowed brow and sweat.

When it came to your mom, there was no gap to close. Introduction wasn’t necessary. But penetration was desirable, so they moved on to that without delay.

When you focused on them, their onyx bodies, you felt like you were back at work, snapping pictures of the usual fare on one knee. It wasn’t until you’d look back down at your mom, the target of their thrusts, that it would sink in, though only for seconds at a time, that the woman who gave you everything, her look, sound, smell, touch and taste before you, was now giving them more. She had always been there for you, a weight that pressed the floor to squeak as she moved across carpet, that presence that stood in the doorway of your room, the first thing you’d see when you’d open your eyes, telling you that you’d be late for school. The same delicate weight and aura that filled the house, aging and living with it, slamming cupboards and scraping plates with many sets of knives and forks, closing shades, which changed with the years, to block out sun, and watering plants to watch them grow, die and be reborn, lay there, a series of welcoming holes, dug within a body that was beautiful enough to please the chemistry of male brains on all six habitable continents.

It was Mr. Bernstein, of all people, not an artist himself per se, who saw her potential before anyone. “Not only are you my best photographer,” he’d say. “But you have the best possible muse living under your same roof.” He’d ask you from time to time if you thought she’d ever sleep with a black guy. You told him that you didn’t think so. That intrigued him, paradoxically, more than if you said yes. The genius in him that not only did he see potential in any and every open door, but more than that, he saw that that potential was multiplied when the door was closed. He would watch your mom from his window as she’d wave you goodbye and continue walking down the street as Arab eyes followed, taking in her figure and flavor. He could see her lack of interest, the dark eyes of the men even worse than troubling to her, they were invisible. Fear could be transformed into lust. But not indifference. And it was at this specific moment that his obsession began.

Four months later and he’d be handing you a baggie full of pills. “She has no idea. You have the power to make her immortal. Don’t throw it away. Make her into the star she’s too stupid to see in herself. You’re the only one who can.” He would say these things to you as Rachel and Dominique went back and forth under the desk, switching between him and you. Whenever you’d look down, you’d see Rachel looking back up into your eyes, curious as to what you’d say to him.

And as awkward as those moments were, due exclusively to your slippery-ness when it came to your answer to his suggestion, you still cherished those moments when you could feel Rachel working extra hard on all parts of your nether regions with her soft tongue after hearing Mr. Bernstein praise your genius. When she’d go back to service Mr. Bernstein, you’d wrap your leg behind Dominique’s back and palm Rachel’s nude ass with the sole of your foot, occasionally feeling the length of her butt-crack with your toe, as Dominique licked the space between your testicles and thigh while looking up at you, smiling with her eyes. When she’d feel Mr. Bernstein reach under the desk and slap her ass, she’d make a look at you as if to say “don’t worry, she’s coming,” before switching spots with Rachel.

The only time better than that was the one time you and Rachel were both under the shadow of Mr. Bernstein’s desk together, both filling your mouth with pieces of him as he let his head hang back and began thrusting upward into and around your two faces. As you took the full length and girth of Mr. Bernstein inside your mouth, you looked over at Rachel, an inch from your face, to see that she was looking at you. Her eyes were wide open and she sucked on his right testicle. As she let it drop out of her mouth, she began licking the area between his thigh and his testicle. And when she caught you looking at her as you sucked, you two locked eyes again, close enough that you were exhaling through the nose into each other’s full faces. “Oh god,” Mr. Bernstein said above you. “You two are playing me like a symphony down there,” and he groaned in pleasure while placing his hands over your respective heads.

You wanted to pull her body close to yours then, but you couldn’t find the courage to do it. Even still, you looked her straight in the eye, every moment you could, and she looked back, even as you licked the side of Mr. Bernstein’s left nut and he suddenly groaned and let cum spray out all over Rachel’s face in three solid volleys. She shut her eyes then, opened her mouth, and welcomed in the thick, creamy substance. You didn’t let go for a second, wanting to use your tongue to move every bit of cum within those balls that you were licking then, onto Rachel’s exalted face.

“Fuck, you two are naturals,” he said, as his penis began to go flaccid before you. Rachel stood there, on her hands and knees, eyes shut, mouth still slightly agape, smiling. A contentment in her then so striking, that if you had your camera with you down there, you would have taken a photo with it. As she sat in her own world, washed away from all the cares and humdrum of life, you began, as if being pushed, to lean in towards her. As her face got closer, a warmth began to permeate your chest, shoulders and face. And just before your faces met she opened her eyes. You stopped dead in your tracks.

You stood there now, in the midday light of your living room, naked heels under your naked ass, bare, but for the camera strap around your neck and shoulder, snapping photos. Your mom sat there with the face of an angel. Her hair ragamuffin-like and innocuous, as if the rest of her were inviolate as she slept. If angels and otherworldly female beings existed, they would look like your mom. She had a beauty to real for fashion modelling, and too pure for your genre of photography. Yet still, she, with no effort exerted at all, had slipped her way into being your greatest muse, everything about her built not just for this medium, but for your specific branch of its tree. “Sorry, Rachel,” you thought.

Her ass cheeks had that perfect mix of light beige and blushing pink, like European flesh incarnate. Her brunette hair, similar to that of the girl showering carelessly in that video, was thick and lustrous, and the way your mom’s blouse hung delicately over the arch in her shoulders and back was wonderful. Her mouth was filled with that foreign delicacy just as they filled themselves on her. They were now at the best French bakery in the country, and their taste buds were electric with its most expensive pastry.

Her tastebuds, if she had the wherewithal to know them, were filled with the salty slab of meat which the man who was currently thrusting it into her face used to massage in his eighth story apartment near the bridge, looking at images of European women posing in his mother’s fashion magazine. Their bodies teasing and beckoning, as if to say borders were nothing but cruel lines on a map, there only to Balkanize the weight of the human race, an illusion to make us believe that we were separate and not one, our differences but signs leading us on the road toward understanding our common humanity. The purity of the French sidewalk and café worth so much more in their time because of the satisfying fall of its giant, seen when those same streets and tables, that purity of culture and flesh, became nice and enriched, as if the vision of a muted rainbow, a kaleidoscope of flesh-tones, a cacophony of tongues and dialects, was a predetermined plan. The coupling of bodies, cosmetically different but the same in their fundamental wants and desires, within the bedrooms of apartments across the country. Women clamoring for the thrill of something new, and men looking to conquer the locals. Fears, assumptions, and misunderstandings working in favor of the friction between sets of flesh, as if it were the spice that seasoned the meat.

And where desire failed to take root, and understanding failed to bloom, even the expectation of reasonable boundaries between individuals, including the most sacred boundary, that between the flesh of man and woman, had to be brought down.

Your mom’s ass was being seasoned now. Your room was starting to fill with that familiar black man smell. Many hated it. Though you had a deep fondness for it. It helped that whenever you smelled it, it was always permeating around the flesh of your countrywomen. Their fine and nuanced perfumes meeting and intermingling with the masculine odors of mankind’s most masculine specimens. Animal-like and raw. French hips, thighs, and pelvises, not articulated enough for the special kind of motion and thrusts that black muscle offered.

Most French girls you knew outside of work couldn’t stand black guys, often out of bigotry, themselves victims of careless stereotypes, which they received and spread on wings of unfortunate kind, obstructing unions, if even for the night, which would have been beautiful and liberatory. But the girls at work, including those who weren’t pleased once they found out what their new modelling job would entail, ended up enjoying the black men that they feared so much in due time. Everything they found offputting about black men, their aggressive nature, their impulsive decision-making, their strange facial structure, their dark flesh, their constant need to showboat and demand attention; once a Frenchwoman took the plunge, she stayed submerged in that water. Mr. Bernstein, visionary that he was, knew this would be the case, and operated at a slight net financial-loss to make it happen. Not just in his studio, but to have his studio be the soil where the first seed was planted, in hopes that it would pollinate the streets and hallways of Paris, the roads and fields of France, and maybe in time, the peaks and valleys of Europe. The European sun rising on black cocks that sat stiff, licked and pleasured in the hayfield by a local, sneaking away from her family table to reward her new countryman and co-inheritor of her nation’s history.

You were one of his swords in that crusade, perhaps the sharpest, rewiring the baguette-addled mind of your country’s various Jeanne’s and Adalene’s, making them know and understand that naked liaisons with the darker races were not only acceptable, but cutting edge and trendy, despite years worth of subtle propaganda convincing them otherwise. The flaws of the Arab, Turk, or African more desirable than the virtues of the French, Italian, or German. The territorial Frenchman a bigot, the open-hearted effeminate. Those east of the Aegean and South of the Mediterranean, immune to that rubric. Exotic and masculine in their behavior, progressive and cosmopolitan just by their presence in the Parisian streets. They couldn’t lose. That was the intention anyway. The model being European explorers mistaken as gods in the new world, and being rewarded beautifully for it by bodies unlike any that had previously known.

Rachel was a great example of the type who responded well to this awakening process. You still remember the day she was coerced into doing much more than just work at the reception desk. She was very cute and innocent in those days. You used to come into the lobby and see Mr. Bernstein talk softly to her in his broken French, chipping away at the blemished leftovers of her Catholicism, priming her for what she was always built for. He would call the most handsome and tall immigrants up to his office, just to parade them past her field of vision. When he saw her in the passenger seat of Ameer’s Peugeot from his window, leaning over with her head bobbing on his lap as he thumbed through her brown hair with his dark hand, he grinned. A month later, she was working in front of the camera. An arc that would feel too good to be true had you not witnessed it yourself.

She had become Bernstein’s pride and joy. And your main muse. At least until today. You were now watching your mom, with little to no effort, knock Rachel off of her pedestal. As you snapped more photos, you thought about the head piece at the upcoming exhibit. That oblivious girl, soap suds running down her unguarded butt-crack, the poor thing, she had no chance against your mom. Her sweet humming had nothing on your mom’s innocent sleeping face as her chin was slapped by aggressive black testicles.

Mr. Bernstein had seen the utility in your mother. He knew that she had that certain thing, whatever it was, it took to push the genre he popularized over the edge. And he believed that you were the tool able to give that to him. He put so much stock in you for exactly this moment, placing the fate of your mom’s ass, and its immortality, in your lap. Its size weighed on you, pinning you in place. He had almost given up on you, defeated and heartbroken. You couldn’t wait ‘til the moment you could throw the first developed photograph on his desk. The look on his face. It would be wonderful.

You knew Rachel was going to be jealous. You could imagine your mom’s ass bumping up against Rachel’s sending it falling off its pedestal, as your mom sat down on it in its place, the ivory white of the pedestal creaking, and cracking in places, under the giant weight of your mom’s cheeks, her ass too big for consciousness itself to bare, never mind matter.

“Yo, take this Baggett, bitch.”

“How that crepe taste, Devone?”

“It taste like French Vanilla.”

“No wonder African niggas moving here in record numbers. The white boys here is great. Imagine offering your moms up to a cracka.”

The other one just looked up at your mom’s face, her eyes half opened, focusing on touching every inch of walls inside her pussy as he admired how delicately formed each of her facial features were.

“White people just different. Thank god for that. They be staying in the house when ghosts is talking and they blue up they own moms so a nigga can fuck em.”

The other one said “ohhh fucckk.”

“Let’s hit the road after we get our check. I wanna visit Sweden a fuck a pigtails having bitch while she yodel and shit.”

“This enough ass for a whole continent,” the other one said through gritted teeth.

“Then stop hogging the bitch.”

“I’m a bust inside this puss- uhh…. Ohhh… fucck… yesss..”

Your mom, sudden and startingly, said “Oui pere je suis plein. Puis-je aller jouer?”

You snapped furiously at the strange omen. Though, like all artists, you saw meaning in everything. The world itself your easel, with various colors to smear. As the man’s butt cheeks tensed up, and he screamed “ohh, god. Ohhh, yesss. Fffuccckk,” your mom talked through it all, saying “Je mets des fleurs dans mes cheveux pour que Jacques me remarque.”

As he finished, taking his final complimentary pumps into her soft bottom, she said “le soleil se couche et je pleure a sa beaute. Ne me laisse pas seul cepedant, j’ai peur du noir.”

As you continued to snap photos at various angles with one hand, the spent black man, now sitting on the other couch with a still-large but flaccid cock, just looked down at the hard white prick that you jerked with the other hand. “You a sick freak, you know that right?”

You couldn’t understand him. “Mom… fuck… nigger… good,” is all you could say.

“You just gonna say that word out inna open, aren’t you?” Then he thought about it. “If all I have to do is hear a white boy say that word and I can fuck his mama’ ass in front of him, then ‘nigger’ away, I guess.”

You nodded your head. “Nigger… French…. Fuck… good,” you said, and you gave him a thumbs up.

“You know what man? You alright. Nigger French fuck good. I agree,” he said, and then laughed. “A lot more Nigger French Fuck in the future.”

“Good,” you said.

“Bien,” he said. “Very bien. Une Chocolate et un vanilla.”

“Yes. Very good,” you said in English. “Mmm” you said, and rubbed your pink tummy with your other hand.

He pointed at your mom as she was being reamed. “French? Mmm,” he said. “Mmm. Very much.” And he rubbed his purple tummy.

You blushed and stood there flattered. He then extended his open hand out, you approached him and shook it.

He pointed again at your mom. “After he’s done. You go.”

You pointed at your own chest. “Me? Me go? No. No,” you said.


“No, nigger only.”

“Ha ha ha,” he said. “My man!”

A giant tourist bus with two levels passed by outside. On its side was an ad for perfume, with a beautiful French face looking outward, being sultry at everyone who seen it, as if anyone who happened to turn their head in in her direction were the target eliciting her current expression, inviting them toward the brass bed of a woman who never was. It covered the whole room in shadow before clearing to let the light in.

Your mom laid there with her cheek on the couch seat, as her body went back and forth on its x-axis, and she said “je veux etre comme les filles dan les jolies photos.”

The man behind her started to tense up. That sight, as familiar to you as the back of your hand, of black buttcheeks clenching as the dark back and shoulder over it tensed up straight, as if zapped with electricity. “I’m a nut on this creamy bitch face.”

He pulled out, pushed her down, and straddled over her back, pressing the tip of his cock into the side of her face as he jerked off. If he were to press his balls into the underside of her chin, and let his shaft fall flush to the side of her face, the tip of his cock would reach well over the beginning of her hairline. The black penis a freakishly large marvel, their existence here within the four corners of this country a blessing comparable in size. After a few seconds of jerking off his cock close to her sleeping face, grabbing the base of it and flicking it onto her cheek every few seconds, a thick wad came out and landed on her unguarded features, followed by reinforcements which gushed forth like dragoons.

As the thick ropes spilled on top of her beauty, she said “Je veux voir le monde, papa. Mais je reviendrai toujours ver toi.”

He grunted as the last of it dripped out and landed on his target. He then slapped his still-hard cock on her face a few more times to get the last of it out. When he was finished, he said “merci beaucoup, madame. Now I’m fatiguee.”

The other one looked at you and pointed over at his friend. “You hear this nigga? He says he fat and gay.”

“Nigga don’t start. We just threw a party on this bitch’ pussy. What else you want?”

“Nothing man. I came in that bitch. I’m good.”

“I think next time I’m coming here, it’ll be to stay. Not only is the ass good. Niggas be giving it out for free like crack when Five-Oh comin’.”

“Listen, why we try and fight crackas back home when we can come to the place where they spawn at and fuck em here?”

“For real.”

“They got bitches that’ll fuck us cuz they love us. Bitch’s that’ll fuck us for money. And bitches that won’t fuck us so they put em to sleep first. No wonder so many African niggas is coming here. This the land of milk and honey.”

“Milk and honey? Word is bond. I bet every bitch in this country have at least one nigga that’ll set her up for us. White boys that’ll drug their friends whole family, we come and fuck the mom and daughter and leave.”

“I don’t’ know how these French dimes ain’t getting kidnapped by them Arab niggas on the daily. They don’t even know it’s open season on rich white pussy yet. Whole country, not one white nigga with street smarts.”

Your cellphone sat in your pocket, set to record, as you took pictures of them, sitting down naked talking to one another, dark, with your mom off to the side, white, wet and sticky.

You took photos of them urinating on her head over yesterday’s copy of Le Monde. As her face splashed with urine, she said “j’aime la pluie sur ma peau.” And as you took shots of them farting on her face, she said “et le tonnerre me fait trembler.” You then took a final photo of the two of them, each with their arms curled as a show of strength, with one foot each on your mom’s back. She said “tu es grand et fort, Jacques. Promets-moi que tu seras toujours la pour me proteger.”

After that they were gone.

You headed to the kitchen and filled up a bucket with water and soap. As the water poured, you looked out the window at the beautiful day. The sun was at the highest point of its trajectory and the shadows it cast were minimal. You brought the bucket back to the living room, and you washed her hair on the living room floor. After you were done that, you grabbed her hair and pulled her head up off the ground, scooting underneath it, until your hard cock was directly underneath your mom’s mouth. You felt the air of her breath on it as she said “mon seul et unique enfant. Je vis maintenant pour toi.”

Then you dropped her face onto your cock, and began to lift and drop it in time with your thrusts. You moaned as your head touched the back of her throat. “Maman,” you said. “Ton visage est tellement amusant a baiser.” You tilted her head so that your cock could press into the inside of her cheek. “Tu es la propriete d’une bite de negre ta salope francaise.” Then you began thrusting in and out rapidly, until all that existed within your house sonically was the sound of your mom’s wet mouth being penetrated.

Just as you began to entertain the thought of fucking your mom right here and now, you heard a camera shutter behind you.

You turned around to catch a glimpse of his ugly face, just before he ducked back into the kitchen.

He saw your legs appear before him. Then you bent down looked at him huddled beneath your kitchen table, cramped in between chair legs.

“Sorry,” you said. “But I beat you to it. I’m still number one.”

He just sat there, saying nothing afraid. His bare foot facing you. You followed up his leg to see that he was wearing no pants, they had been removed and thrown to the side. His cock was rock hard.

You started to pity him then, him looking like a trapped rat. He wouldn’t have looked like he belonged in the country he was born in, never mind looking like he was comfortable in this country. Yet you could see it in him, just as you could see everything in everyone, that glimmer of hope in his eye, though remote, was apparent to whatever it was in you, that certain sixth sense, that always pushed you to click that shutter when the time came.

You smiled at him. It unnerved him more than anything, but he had no where to go to avoid it. He was captive to whatever it was you would say next. “You ever fuck a French girl?” you asked him.

He shook his head in the negative.

You looked into his wide eyes, then you leaned back out of the kitchen and looked at your mom laying face down, her ass face up, with a strip of white light intersecting her crack. “Okay,” you said, and you leaned back into the kitchen and looked at him. “Come on out.” You grabbed his arm and guided him out of his hiding place. Then you helped stand him up, his legs wobbling to regain his step. “Are you ready?” you asked him, to which he just nodded, and you walked him out into the living room. The area underneath the kitchen table was empty now, but for the labyrinth of chair legs which sat alone, motionless.

“Okay,” you said, words which drifted back into the empty kitchen. “You’re in for a treat.”


“How does it look?” he asked, and he turned around to look at it himself.

You smiled up at it. “What do you want me to say? It’s my mom getting blacked.”

“I guess it’s hard to be objective. But it isn’t just in your head. Rachel kept looking at it for the whole exhibition. I asked her what she thought. She laughed and said she wanted to kick your mom’s butt for taking her top spot.”

You blushed and looked down at the camera that hung on your chest.

“No, but she loves it. Everybody does. We’re all very proud of you.”

You didn’t know what to say, you just looked up at the giant image, which took up the majority of the back wall. Below it was a nameplate which simply said France.

“France,” you said to yourself.

“Yup, France,” he said, grinning as he looked at the window from his chair.

“You know,” you said, drawing his attention with your tone. “It’s called France, but the two men in the image are American. They’re not from Africa.”

“And?” he asked.

You sat there for a few seconds, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know,” you said.

He breathed in deeply. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s a photograph. It’s art. All art is illusion.”

You grinned slightly, settling into that wisdom, settling into your acceptance of it.

He looked back up at it. “I think that’s the image that’s going to set us over the edge. We’ve been open about her being the mother of a photographer and those beautiful photos you took of the pills dissolving in that wine make it very obvious what you were going for, even if most people are assuming that it’s just theatre, a publicity stunt. I think they’ll just leave us alone. But if somebody in the reactionary press gets a hold of it and decides they want to make a fuss, there’s a remote chance it might go big time and your mom could see the photo.”

“I know,” you said. “I accept that that’s possible.”

“I’m just covering my bases here. But in the remote chance that she ever does find out, just let her know that her making a big deal of it may or may not lead to problems for us, but it will definitely lead to problems for yourself. Not that it’ll come to that though. Even if they do force a writeup about us, they’re not going to publish the images. They wouldn’t dare. Especially if they figure it’s real.”

“I know,” you said. “I practiced the speech already.”

“Good,” he said, and looked back up at it. “It sure makes this office look cheery. I was starting to get sick of those old paintings. It’s 2021, time to move on.”

You both sat there, looking up at it silently.

He turned around again. “You have anywhere you need to be?”

“Yeah,” you said.

“Oh yeah? Is it important?”

“I don’t know. Me and Rachel are supposed to go out for lunch after her shoot.”

“Oh, perfect,” he said. He pulled out his drawer and pulled something out of it, placing it on the table before you.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“You ever hear of those big diamonds they have over in the Congo?” He grabbed the little case and opened it up, and staring back up at you was a ring, reflecting sunlight into your eyes. He continued: “I let Rachel go.”

You looked back up at him. “You fired Rachel!?”

He stopped, his face going white. “Oh, no, no. Sorry. My bad French. I mean the thing I was paying her for before, the no-white-guys-thing, she doesn’t have to do that now. She’s free.” He laughed to himself when he saw your relief. “I would never fire Rachel, even if it doubled my revenue.”

You looked down at the ring again.

He pushed it toward your end of the desk. You looked up at him. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Go and get her.”

You get out of the elevator and see the giant white screens in the corner of the studio with sudden flashes of light coming through them and loud directions being shouted.

When you round the partition you see Gaston standing there, with his camera sideways, clicking picture after picture. You follow the camera to see Rachel, sweaty and desheveled, sitting on her knees on a white bed, as tall African men surround her, slapping their giant cocks on her white face. Gaston takes another photograph.

They dance on and around her features, occasionally entering her mouth and pressing into her cheek. Satisfying slap after satisfying slap is made. It’s as if she’s drowning in black cock.

“Okay Rachel. I want you to look happy now, like you live for this moment. You couldn’t be happier. Guys, are you almost ready?”

The men, professionals all, start to cum within moments of each other, sending rope after rope of sticky white cum all over her face. She holds it up, catching every strand, her eyes shut closed and her mouth ajar.

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” Gaston says. “Now Obyn, fuck her face a bit more while your cock’s still hard.”

You watched as Rachel took his cock. His black balls bouncing off of her white chin. Her eyes still closed. The contentment in her face apparent. Two cocks, still slightly hard, wormed their way through her brunette hair, leaving trails of beautiful white.

“Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!” said Gaston, as he snapped. “Okay. Aaannnnddd, we’re done!”

Gaston walked up to the bed with his camera hanging from his neck. As Obyn turned around to step off of the bed, Gaston pointed at Rachel to look in his direction, when she did, and she saw his black-as-the-night ass before her, she felt a hand push the back of her head until she landed between his sweaty butt cheeks. She turned around and say “hey!”

Gaston walked off laughing. “Shut up!”

She smiled as she watched him go. “I can’t believe that guy.”

Then she caught something in her peripheral. She turned to see you approaching her.

“Right on time!” she said. “By the way, I got a surprise for you after lunch. I won’t tell you right now, I want to surprise you with it. So get ready.” She smiled like somebody who had something beautiful to hide.

You stood there, saying nothing. She looked back at you, her make-up smeared and her bangs matted upwards by cum.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You don’t look so hot.”

Suddenly, as if you had no choice, you thumbed your right pocket until you could feel it in your grasp, and then you fell to one knee.

You felt nothing, operating entirely on instinct, until the moment her hands both shot up to cover her open mouth. You could hear her suck back the air.

Suddenly, your numbness was replaced by a warmth in your chest, shoulder, and face.

Before you could even say anything, she dropped her hands to her naked lap and screamed “yes!”

You stood up, forgetting to even put the ring on her finger, and you grabbed her from behind the small of her bare back. You pulled her close to you, feeling her delicate frame give-in without caveat or a moment of thought. You then leaned in close to her. When your lips met, the studio exploded with cheers. You heard Gaston’s camera snapping.

You pulled back and looked into her eyes. She smiled back at you and then pressed the side of her head into your chest. You looked over her shoulder to see Dominique standing there, smiling. She gave you a nod, and you nodded back.

As Gaston’s camera snapped, and the excited chatter continued all around you, you looked up at the high roof of Mr. Bernstein’s studio, which existed above and beyond the white screen that partitioned it from the stage that you and Rachel held each other on. You felt warmth in your chest, shoulders, and face.

And you smiled up at the darkness, knowing that it was only within the creaky embrace of this building where things like this could happen. Because now you were in Mr. Bernstein’s studio, the true heart of Paris, and the only place in the world where real magic happened.

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cocaine papi
cocaine papi
Apr 18, 2021

That's definitely one of ur best stories yet! Something completely different, i especially love the parts where the mother is talking all drugged up (it was worth using google translate).

All ur european fans are gonna love this (including me).

I dont wanna go a down rabbit hole but i cant help to notice that the boss is jewish. Is this a coincidence or is there a meaning behind this. It reminds me of all that conspiracy theories about white genocide, white extinction, that jews control the porn industry and are pushing interracial propaganda among western countries.

Almost all the debauchery in this story happens because of the boss. While he doesnt take any harm from it. The "Art" he…

Apr 19, 2021
Replying to

Thanks man! That's high praise. And i have no intention of quitting any time soon. I have literally over a hundred more story ideas, and i still come up with more on a regular basis. I'll probably never get to write all the stories i want to write. But i want to write as many as I can.

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