Courtney’s Ebony Goddess
Prologue
“Courtney! Courtney, come here this instant!”
Miss Tomyka sounded very impatient, so I knew I had better get out to the pool in a hurry! I stopped preparing her lunch and headed outside, stopping to check my reflection on the way out. My maid’s cap was perched atop my head. My crisp black uniform fit perfectly, my cleavage spilling over the top of the ruffled bodice, and was offset beautifully by my little white apron and the mounds of ruffled petticoats that bounced saucily as I walked. I turned around and looked over my shoulder to make sure my stocking seams were straight. I had learned the hard way that droopy stockings or crooked seams were pet peeves of my mistress. Miss Tomyka feels that if one is to be a uniformed maid, one has a responsibility to wear the uniform well—a lesson she has reinforced on more than one occasion using methods that can only be described as “creative.”
When I reached the poolside lounge chair in which Miss Tomyka was sun bathing, I asked “Yes, Miss Tomyka,” as I bowed my head and curtseyed.
“Courtney, how many times do I have to tell you that my comfort and convenience are your primary responsibilities? It’s hot out here and I have been waiting twenty minutes for you to come outside and refill my drink!”
“I’m sorry, Miss Tomyka,” I said as I clasped my hands and stared at the ground.
“If you want to be my maid, you’re going to have to do a better job of it!”
“Yes, Miss Tomyka”
“And you do want to continue serving as my maid, don’t you Courtney?” she said with a sly grin.
“Yes, Miss Tomyka”
“I thought so. Now, run along like a good girl and fill this pitcher with iced tea. You may also bring out my lunch when you return.”
“Yes, Miss Tomyka.”
I curtseyed and turned to go.
“Oh, Courtney?”
“Yes, Miss Tomyka”
“Please put five demerits into your punishment book. We will discuss this further during your weekly review.”
“Yes ma’am.”
As I clicked away on my gleaming patent heels, heading back to my chores with the drink pitcher on a serving tray, I thought to myself how strange it was that just a short time ago our positions were reversed—and stranger still that I had begged Tomyka to trade places with me.
Chapter I
I had it all. Not only was I born to wealth and privilege, the fates had given me the gifts of great beauty and talent. I’m a drop-dead gorgeous blue-eyed blonde who learned early the power afforded by that money and beauty.
My talent is as a singer and dancer. So much so that I’m an internationally famous pop princess who has reigned at the top of the music charts for the past few years. My name is Courtney Lancer. Unless you’ve been living in a cave for the past few years, you know who I am. Your kids certainly do.
My rise to superstardom was as effortless as as everything else in my life. It’s always felt to me that I was destined to succeed in whatever I chose to undertake.
One day, I lay by the pool, sunbathing in a lounge chair. I had just come off of a wildly successful six month tour. The HBO special of my performance in Las Vagas was one to the highest rated shows in the history of the network. I was taking a few months off from my hectic schedule of recording and performing to recharge and relax.
“Tomyka! Tomyka, please come here,” I called.
Tomyka McKnight was my personal assistant. She had not been working for me long. After several years, my previous assistant said she was tired of the whole pop princess whirlwind and left my employ to get married and settle down.
Tomyka had been referred to me by one of the dancers in my show. It seems she was at loose ends after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Her job in New Orleans no longer existed because her place of employment had been destroyed. Tomyka was one of the the thousands of people evacuated from the hellish conditions in the Superdome and sent into Texas.
The dancer in my show was Tomyka’s cousin. He was aware that my previous assistant had moved on and suggested that Tomyka might be a good fit for the open position.
“Courtney,” he said, “she’s beautiful, educated, organized and energetic. Her whole world has been turned upside down by Katrina. Right sow she’s a refugee, but I’m telling you, this girl is a class act. I’m sure she’d do a great job managing everything you have to deal with.”
I liked her right away. Even though she had been forced to flee her home with only the clothes on her back and had been through hell during the immediate aftermath of Katrina, she still radiated intelligence, class and beauty. Her presence was downright regal. With her posture, bearing and piercing eyes, she reminded me of nothing so much as a Nubian queen visiting Egypt at the time of the Pharos.
Tomyka quickly became an invaluable part of my entourage. She did a great job of organizing my impossible itinerary. There were always a lot of balls to keep in the air at the same time -recording sessions, rehearsals, guest spots on TV shows, endorsement deals (last year I made more $millions from the Barbie dolls, lunch boxes and tee shirts that bear my likeness than I did from record sales)—you name it, I had it going on.
Each morning Tomyka would come to me, looking every bit the efficient assistant and lay out my schedule for the day. I was able to accomplish more than ever thanks to her organizational skills. I rewarded her handsomely for her efforts and even asked her to move into my home so she’d always be nearby when I needed her.
I had bought a lot more house than I needed—a mansion on what can only be described as an estate several acres in size. My accountant told me it was a prudent move—either buy something or see the money disappear into Uncle Sam’s black hole.
It was lonely to live by myself in a palace. During the day, Carman, the cook/housekeeper and Jorge, the driver/groundskeeper were around but they left after work, leaving me alone in the huge house at night. Sure, I could have gone out, or entertained, but I was tired after my recent tour and wanted to rest for awhile. Home was where I wanted to be, and I was very happy to have Tomyka under the same roof while I recharged.
“Yes, Miss Lancer?”
“Hello, Tomyka. I’ve signed the stack of papers you left with me. Please take them and be a dear? Please bring me something to drink. And for goodness’ sake, please call me Courtney. I think of you as a friend, and we live under the same roof!”
“No, Miss Lancer. I am your employee. A show of respect is appropriate. I’ll be happy to get you a drink.”
As she walked from the pool back to the house, I reflected on how lucky I was to have found Tomyka. She did a great job as the personal assistant I had hired her to be, but also took it upon herself to cook and clean, not waiting for Carmen. If she saw something that she thought needed doing, Tomyka did it.
As pop royalty, I was surrounded most of the time by insincere sycophants—hangers-on angling for a piece of me in order to benefit themselves. Tomyka was a breath of fresh air.
As she returned with my drink, Tomyka did not look like the personal assistant in a crisp business suit that usually greeted me in the morning. This being a Saturday, she must have decided that something needed cleaning, because she was dressed in a simple housecoat, with a kerchief on her head, wearing rubber gloves.
“Thank you, Tomyka. What in the world are you doing that requires rubber gloves?”
Tomyka laughed, “I’m sure I look like something the cat dragged in. My bathroom needed a touch up.”
“Why not just wait for Carmen? I pay her to be the housekeeper, not you. You do enough during the week. Come sit by the pool and relax.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lancer. It wouldn’t feel right. You are the lady of the house, and lounging by the pool is your place. My place is to be working.” She smiled and returned to her work in the house.
I don’t now what came over me in that moment, but as I lay there I began to feel aroused at the thought of serving Tomyka. To go from being the “lady of the house” stretched out poolside in luxury, to being the person at the bottom of the pecking order. Suddenly, scrubbing and serving while Tomyka lay by the pool became very sexually exciting!
I laid there actually trembling as I imagined surrendering power. After actually orgasming, I knew I had to act on my feelings.
I found Tomyka on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor in her bathroom. As I stood there with my hands on my hips, my long legs gleaming in my stiletto heels, I asked her to let me trade places with her.
Tomyka seemed confused at first, as if she didn’t understand what I meant. I explained that I wanted to play a game—that it would feel deliciously naughty to me to make believe she was the mistress and I was the servant.
She still seemed skeptical until I told her that this was something that was turning me on and that I would pay her a ten thousand dollar bonus if she’d play with me and boss me around.
“Well, Courtney,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “you can start by finishing this bathroom. First though, we have to find you some appropriate clothing. My maids are not permitted to prance around in gold bikinis and come-fuck-me pumps!”
We went upstairs into my suite. As we entered my walk-in closet, it occurred to me that it was bigger than Tomyka’s apartment.
As it happens, we are both the same size. As she scanned my closet for something to wear, she undressed. She handed me the housecoat, her kerchief and the rubber gloves.
“You’re going to work, and you’re going to look the part. Get out of that bathing suit and into my cleaning clothes. I’ve had a DVD from Netflix hanging around for a month, that I’ve been meaning to watch. Please set me up in the entertainment room with a snack and then clean my apartment. And you had better to a good job,” she said.
“Or what?” I asked.
“I’ll think of something. By the way, as you were getting changed, I was happy to see that the rug matches the curtains. An ebony goddess such as me should only be served by a natural blonde! Perhaps one day I will take the amber fleece that sits so proudly between your thighs and keep it as a souvenir. Wouldn’t it look great under glass like a pressed flower? We could hang it in the main foyer. It would make a great symbol of our relationship. Hmmm, I’ll have to give the matter some thought. Now, off with you!”
I blushed at Tomyka’s reference to the “amber fleece” between my legs, but I loved the bossy tone she was taking with me. She was playing her role very well, seeming to understand how to press my buttons. Being bossed around and spoken to as though I was a silly subordinate that she had little patience for made me very excited—a fact demonstrated by the growing wet spot in the panties I had just put on.
After queuing up Tomyka’s DVD and serving her a snack, I set about scrubbing her bathroom floor on my hands and knees, made her bed and vacuumed her apartment, all the while relishing the thought of her lounging in the home theater in one of my designer ensembles as I performed my menial tasks. I can’t explain why, but the reduction in status from princess to plainly dressed cleaning lady made me tremble with sexual excitement.
When I finished my chores, I went to see my new mistress in the home theater and told her I was done.
“We’ll see,” she replied.
“Not bad for a first attempt, but I expect a better job as you become more accustomed to your new responsibilities.”
“Yes, Tomyka”
“When we are playing our little game, you will refer to me as Ms. Tomyka. Is that understood?”
“Yes,... Ms. Tomyka.”
“Very good, Courtney. Now, if you don’t mind I want to finish my movie. Please make yourself busy.”
As I got down on my hands and knees and began scrubbing the floor my field of vision was filled with the sight of Ms. Tomyka’s long, gorgeous legs gleaming as she wore the pumps I was wearing earlier. It was a mirror image of the earlier scene—and thinking of it made me orgasm again.
Thus began my descent into sexual slavery.
Chapter 2
For several weeks, this became our routine: As soon as Carmen and Jorge left for the day, I would strip and leave my clothes in a pile wherever I was (Ms.Tomyka’s orders!). The next day Carmen would find the pile of clothes wherever I had left them. She would mutter under her breath about what a slob I was becoming and how I was taking advantage of my employees.
“That spoiled brat needs to be taught some respect,” Carmen said one day. If she only knew!
After stripping I would then explore the house in the nude until I found Ms. Tomyka. Sometimes this entailed searching outside. If I found Ms. Tomyka in the back yard, I would stand before her at attention and wait for her instructions. If I was unfortunate enough to find her in the front yard—I’d have to crawl behind the hedges to keep out of sight—I would squat behind the bushes and call to her as quietly as I could. After I got her attention, she would laugh and tell me to stand in front of her at attention—in the front yard—or sneak back into the back yard and cut a switch. I would have to wait outside in the nude nervously twirling the switch in my hands until Ms. Tomyka decided to come into the back yard and put a few stripes across “the best ass of the decade” as voted by the readers of Maxim.
If I found Ms.Tomyka inside the house, after presenting myself at attention I would usually be commanded to kneel before her and worship her feet for several minutes. I would then be sent to dress in my work attire and then complete whatever cleaning assignments Ms. Tomyka specified. Many nights, as Ms.Tomyka lay about (in my clothes!) reading a book or working on the computer, I, attired as a cleaning woman, did just that.
Carmen commented more than once that a chore she was used to doing seemed to have been completed already. “Madre Dias!", she said one day, “the marble foyer at the foot of the grand stairway looks as though it’s been scrubbed by hand!” Tomyka grinned at me as I blushed a deep crimson. Carmen got a quizzical look in her eyes, then just shrugged and moved on to her day’s tasks.
My new Mistress did not restrict my duties to mere housework. On some evenings I became her Lady’s maid. At such times I would be attired not in a plain housecoat suitable for scrubbing on my hands and knees (the only way Ms. Tomyka would allow a floor to be cleaned), but in an elaborate black satin maid’s uniform. I was responsible for bathing my Lady, brushing out her hair and attending to her manicure and pedicure.
I was used to being on the receiving end of manicures and pedicures, and so had to learn how to do both up to Tomyka’s standards. Between the internet as a source of information and Ms. Tomyka’s hairbrush as a source of motivation I soon learned what I had to know. When she felt motivation was needed, Ms.Tomyka would use the hair brush with which I brushed her hair on me—but not in the same way I used it on her! Suffice it to say, I frequently had a very difficult time sitting on “the best ass of the decade”
“Wonderful job, Courtney,” Ms. Tomyka said one day as I was working on her toes.
“I think it would be very beneficial for you to spend a month or so as a stylist in a nail salon. I want you, you spoiled little bitch, to know what it is to serve the spoiled women like yourself who frequent upscale salons. Their grating air of assumed privilege and the haughty way they treat “the little people.” We’ll have to disguise you, but I can just see it now—Courtney Lancer taking the bus to work carrying her lunch in a brown bag! What delicious humiliation! It would be great if your boss was some shrill little Korean lady who treated you like shit, humiliated you in public and gave you all the rotten jobs in the salon. Just think how well you’d be able to relate to your audience after such an experience! I’ll have to give this some thought. For now, please remove your clothing and meet me in the home theater. I want to sit on your face while I watch a movie.”
I spent quite a bit of time under Ms. Tomyka’s beautiful bottom. When it comes to oral sex, I’ve sometimes felt that God put the playground too close to the bathroom. Despite my initial reluctance, after many hours of practice I became quite good at cunnilingus. It took awhile to get used to eating ass. I didn’t like tonguing Ms. Tomyka’s tight little rosebud at first, which is why she insisted on it. Afterwards she would always call me “ass breath” which made me cringe.
Suffice to say, Ms. Tomyka has expanded my limits. I will now blow, lick, suck or tongue any body part on any person when commanded to do so. More than one random guy walking down the street at night has had the experience of a stunning blonde stepping out of the SUV that pulled up along side him and being asked if she could give him a blow job. The guys must be too stunned to recognize me—so far nobody has asked, “Say, don’t I know you from somewhere?” Maybe because it’s so out of context...they’re used to seeing me on TV, not squatting between parked cars with their dick in my mouth. Some of the cell phone pictures the guys have taken are bound to wind up on the internet, so I hope Ms. Tomyka tires of humiliating me in this way soon.
Chapter III
One night as I kneeled before Tomyka she told me to stop sucking on her toes and sit back on my haunches before her.
“I’ve decided to make a few changes,” she said.”
“When we are within the confines of this estate, you will be a 24/7 slave. Henceforth you are not permitted to wear clothing. Tomorrow, I will explain the new guidelines to Carmen and Jorge as you sit obediently at my feet in the nude. Going forward, Carmen will be my assistant and you will obey her as you do me. As for Jorge...I suppose being a typical male, once he realizes that Courtney Lancer is at his beck and call you will probably be ravished in every hole you’ve got on every inch of this property.”
I immediately rebelled. I stood up and stepped away from Tomyka.
“No!” I shouted as I stood up and backed away.
“I’ve enjoyed playing our little game, and I’m grateful you indulged my submissive fantasies, but I am not going to let our kinky play time extend into my day to day life!”
My Ebony Goddess snapped her fingers and pointed towards her feet.
I immediately fell to my knees, crawled to her and began showering her beautiful feet with kisses.
“You silly thing,” laughed my mistress. “Did my cousin Darnell ever tell you exactly what my job in New Orleans was, prior to Katrina? I was employed by the Louisiana State Department of Health as a licensed hypno-therapist. I used hypnosis to help patients deal with anxiety, phobias, weight loss, smoking cessation and all sorts of issues. I am a very skilled hypnotist and a very keen observer of human nature.”
“It was inevitable that you come to me and tell me you wanted to be a slave. The “naughtiness” of giving up your power and privilege to serve a black woman is very titillating, isn’t’ it? For the supposed top of the pyramid, a blue-eyed blonde beauty, to be at the beck and call of someone supposedly at the bottom of the food chain, a black woman.”
“I don’t know if it’s due to some sort of sense of collective guilt, or what, but it happens all the time. When a spoiled and pampered blonde princess spends any amount of time with a strong African-American female, submissive feelings always emerge. It’s as if the white girl folds in the presence of the strength emanating from a black woman. There are literally thousands of white woman who are slaves to their Black Mistresses. You’d never know it, but many a porcelain blonde from the upper class suburbs spends time with her face beneath the ample ass of her housekeeper.”
“Think about the strength of the Black race! What other group of people has been so mistreated throughout history? Any other race of people would have been destroyed by the experience of slavery and Jim Crow. What did the Black race do with its pain? We combined the cultures of Africa and the Caribbean to give the United Stages it’s only indigenous art form—Jazz, Blues and Rock and Roll. Without us, you bland white bread racists would still be listening to Lawrence Welk!”
“As I said, your submissive feelings were inevitable. It happens all the time. Let’s just say I helped to bring to the surface what you already had inside by way of some post-hypnotic commands. See how easily your little revolt was stopped by the trigger I implanted into your subconscious—snapping my fingers and pointing. It works so well because it’s what you really want.”
“So, enough of this silliness. You are my slave, and tomorrow you will kneel naked before Carmen and Jorge while I explain that this is what their employer wants and that you are going to pay them both a very fat bonus to play along.”
“For now though, we have to deal with your little revolt. Go get into the SUV. Don’t bother to get dressed. From now on you are to assume that you are to be naked at all times and under all circumstances unless I tell you differently. We’re going for a ride out on the interstate, where you are going to blow a trucker. When you grovel before Carmen and Jorge tomorrow it will be with dried sperm flaking off of your face and matted in your glorious golden curls. Get going!,” she said with a slap across my behind.
As Ms. Tomyka pulled the SUV in front of a tractor trailer on the interstate, she turned on the dome light and opened the rear hatch. The truck driver was treated to the sight of me stark naked with my legs splayed widely apart while I brought myself to the edge of ecstasy with a huge crystal dildo.
The trucker blew his air horn to let me know how much he was enjoying my performance. When Ms. Tomyka saw a sign for a rest area, she pulled in. The tractor trailer followed. When the truck pulled to a stop, I leapt out of the SUV and ran naked across the parking lot. I climbed the stairs up to the passenger door and swung the door open. Our truck driving friend already had his cock in his hand. I immediately began giving him a very enthusiastic blow job.
After a few moments the passenger door flung open and we were bathed in the light of a camera’s flash. Ms. Tomyka had caught me with my lips forming the classic cock sucker’s “O” just as I was on the upstroke, so my cheeks were sucked in.
“This is part of her initiation,” said Ms. Tomyka. An 8″x10″ color glossy of her blowing you is going into our sorority album. Please don’t come in her mouth! Come on her face. Every girl’s section has to include a portrait of them smiling after a facial!”
Our truck driving friend was happy to cooperate. Apparently he was also happy to get on his CB radio and spread the word. More trucks began pulling into the rest area.
I blew each driver, much to Ms. Tomyka’s delight. She promised to email each driver a picture of me sitting nude in their lap as a souvenir of our little adventure. By the time we pulled out of the rest area to return home, I was so covered with sperm that I looked like a glazed donut.
“Tonight, you are sleeping on the floor at the foot of your bed—where I’ll be sleeping,” said Ms. Tomyka.
“As a matter of fact, we are trading rooms, but more about that later,” she continued.
‘You are not getting cleaned up until we have our little meeting with Carmen and Jorge in the morning. Don’t sleep too close to the bed. You stink!”
Chapter IV
As promised, the next morning Tomyka called a meeting with Carmen the housekeeper and Jorge the handyman. She told them that she had been promoted to General Manager of Courtney Lancer, Inc. and that going forward they would be taking instructions from her. In addition, Tomyka told them, I would be joining them to explain certain other changes being made in the way the household was run. When Tomyka snapped her fingers and called to me I might have chickened out and not entered the room if snapping her fingers did not also activate a post hypnotic calming sensation.
Carmen and Jorge were speechless when I entered the room stark naked, knelt before my mistress and smothered her feet in kisses. Ms. Tomyka was sitting opposite Carmen and Jorge, so with my lips at Tomyka’s feet and my ass in the air, they got a view of their former boss that they were not used to. They recovered quickly as I knelt before Tomyka and explained that submission and humiliation was what I needed and wanted and that I had begged Tomyka to become my mistress. When I further explained I would pay them each a six figure bonus and open up tax deferred accounts to fund their childrens’ college education if they remained discreet, they were more than willing to indulge what they thought was just another phase for a spoiled brat used to getting her way.
“Oh, please,” said Carmen. “Last year you were into Buddhism and the year before that you were a vegetarian. This interracial lesbian slave business will run it’s course too, but in the meantime, if you want to give me a ton of money to indulge this year’s flavor, that’s fine with me.” Jorge nodded in agreement.
“Very well, then,” said Ms. Tomyka. “As General Manager of household operations, I declare this meeting adjourned—but first Carmen, I want you to realize that you are my second in command. When I am away, Courtney is under your thumb. I expect you to make sure she adheres to the strict standards of behavior and obedience that we will discuss shortly.”
“That won’t be a problem. Her ability to always get what she wants gets on my nerves. She thinks that just because she was born lucky that she’s somehow better than everyone else. I look forward to bossing her around. Getting paid for the privilege is icing on the cake!”
“Very good,” said Tomyka. “Courtney, you are dismissed. Please go and take a bath, you sperm covered little skank. You’re disgusting! While you’re getting cleaned, Carmen, Jorge and I have much to discuss”
Tomyka wasted no time making changes. Later that day, as I scrubbed the kitchen floor under Carmen’s watchful eye, Jorge emptied out Tomyka’s basement apartment. She would be using the master suite that had been mine, while I would be staying in what had been her apartment.
It’s probably not accurate to call it an “apartment.” “Kennel” might be a better description, because Tomyka commanded that the only furnishing be a locking dog cage containing a blanket, a water bowl and a food bowl. That was the extent of my furnishings. If Tomyka didn’t want me to spend the night in her room with my face buried in her crotch, I’d be locked into the cage and the lights would be turned off. I would have to wait in total darkness for Carmen to release me in the morning. She would attach a leash to the collar that I wore when Ms. Tomyka put me into “doggie” mode and I’d follow her on all fours as she walked me into the back yard, where I would relieve myself.
Several months into our adventure, Ms. Tomyka had to return to New Orleans to attend to some family business.
“You’re in charge Carmen. Keep Courtney on her toes while I’m away,” said Tomyka as her bags were loaded into the limousine that would take her to the airport.
“That won’t be a problem,” laughed Carmen. “I have a few ideas regarding how to keep her humble!”
The approach Carmen wanted to take to dominating me during her week in charge was to be my “mommy” – which is what she demanded I call her. She wasn’t about to let me have the run of my house unsupervised when she left for the day, so she decided I would come home with her each night—as her school-aged daughter.
With my makeup scrubbed off , my hair in pigtails and my breasts hidden under a compression garment, I very much looked the part when Carmen—I mean Mommy—dressed me in her grown daughter’s old school uniform and a backpack.
I would ride the bus with Carmen back to her house, where I would do the “homework” she assigned me—usually writing embarrassing phrases such as “I am a naughty little girl and I am going to get a bare bottomed spanking!”
“Welcome home, general manager,” said Carmen, on the day Tomyka returned.
“We’ve missed you around here, but I think I did a pretty good job of keeping little Miss Courtney in line during your absence.”
“I knew I could count on you,” replied Tomyka. “Where is our employer, anyway?
“Courtney wanted to give you a special present for your return. She’s wrapping it now.”
“Courtney? Are you done? Please come down here and greet your mistress properly,” called out Carmen.
“I’m coming, Mama,” I called out. “I’m just finishing wrapping Ms. Tomyka’s gift”
“Mama?” asked Tomyka with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, I wanted her stripped of all power and privilege. While you were away she was my child. She couldn’t so much as turn on the TV without permission.”
As I came down the stairs in my schoolgirl, uniform holding a gift wrapped box, Ms. Tomyka smiled.
“Well, my standard order is that you are not permitted clothing, but your little uniform is so cute that I can’t argue with your mama. I’m tickled to know you haven’t been allowed to wear anything more grown up than pigtails, anklets and Mary Janes during the entire time I was gone. What is that you’ve got there?”
“I’ve missed you Mistress, and wanted to give you a homecoming gift,” I said as I curtseyed and handed the gift to Ms. Tomyka.
“Thank you, Courtney,” said Ms. Tomyka. “Let’s see what we’ve got here!”
Tomyka wore a very wide grin as my gift came into view. There, framed under class was a parchment reading:
Dear Mistress,Thank you for helping me find fulfillment in submission.
Please let me always be Your slave and punish whenever and however You see fit!
Your Ass-Breathed Bitch,Courtney
The words, rendered in beautiful calligraphy, were placed around the central element of the document—an amber triangle of curls that, until recently, rested between my thighs.
“Thank you Courtney! It’s beautiful! Carmen, please ask Jorge to hang this wonderful piece right here in the main entrance.”
“Courtney, I want to see your new look. Please go to your room, get undressed and return naked.”
“Carmen, how did Courtney’s new look come about?” asked Tomyka.
Carmen replied, “Little Missy was very bratty one night when I told her she could not watch TV and had to write her assigned lines...I think it was something about getting her mouth washed out with soap...anyway, after reddening her bottom with a kitchen spoon, I decided to increase her punishment. I told her she was a little brat and now I was going to make her look like one.”
“She stood in my kitchen with her panties around her ankles, holding up her uniform
skirt as I grabbed a pair of scissors and trimmed her pubic hair until only a bit of stubble remained. I ordered her into the bathroom where I shaved her, and gave her a taste of the soap she didn’t want to write about.”
“As I began to sweep up the hair clippings from the kitchen floor, Courtney asked if she could have the hair so she could create your gift. That project became her homework for the rest of the week—after she finished writing 100 times, “I have no pubic hair because I am a bratty little girl and it’s only right that I should look like one.” She completed the assignment sitting on a bare red bottom with soap bubbles coming out of her mouth. I had no problem getting her to do her homework for the rest of the week!” laughed Carmen.
Over the next several months the amber thatch that Tomyka had commented on so long ago fully reappeared. One day as I busied myself cleaning my mistress’ beautiful ass with my tongue, Tomyka announced, “I’ve decided you’re going to stay bare down there. You are to begin electrolysis for permanent hair removal. When you finish what you’re doing, find Carmen and tell her I want you shaved. Save the clippings and bring them to me.”
Now, months later, the electrolysis treatments are complete. I look the way I did when Carmen decided I needed to look like the little brat she said I was. It is unsettling to know my hairless condition is now permanent. It also feels deliciously submissive to know my body has been permanently altered by my Ebony Goddess!
Tomyka could tell what I was feeling. She called me to her side one day and said
“I know you sometimes feel embarrassed to know that from now on you will always look like a little girl – so I’ve brought you something to make you feel better! Hold out your hand!”
My Mistress placed a small crystal box with a locking clasp into my hand. The crystal was transparent, so its contents were on permanent display. Etched into the lid was the following inscription: “Courtney Lancer’s bush. Removed by order of Ebony Goddess Tomyka.”
“There you go, dear. I know you’ve missed having your cute little bush, so I have arranged for you to keep it with you always. From now on it is your permanent responsibility to have your little crystal box o’ bush with you wherever you go. You are to be able to retrieve it show it to whoever asks to see it, wherever and whenever requested to so!”
If we’re out in public, walking down the street or sitting in a restaurant, if Tomyka thinks I need to be reminded who’s boss, she knows that making me dig my little crystal box out of my handbag and give it to her is a great reminder. She purposely left it out on the table one night while we were at a restaurant…I know the waiter saw it because his eyes got wide as saucers as he read the inscription. His stammering and my blushing were Tomyka’s dessert that evening.
Occasionally Tomyka will keep the little box containing my bush for weeks at a time. I blush furiously whenever I wonder how many people have seen the inscription! I know many people must have by now. One night while recording a duet with another well known pop singer—a fat, beautiful black girl you might have seen on American idol – she sat down next to me during a break and said, “show me your bush – or do I have to tell your Ebony Mistress you disobeyed an order?”
I was totally humiliated as I retrieved my crystal box and handed it to her. “Good girl! Tokyka will be so pleased to learn how obedient you are! By the way, unless you want me to tell the tabloids all about your unique relationship with your personal assistant, you will come home with me after this session to clean my apartment and eat my cunt. Call Tomyka. She already said it was OK!”
Soon after Ms. Tomyka decided that I would henceforth be bald between my legs she asked me to stand in front of her. I was, of course, naked as she looked me up and down.
“I like the bald look on you,” she said. “It suits you and I’m keeping you that way. What I don’t like is the way your inner lips are so loose and droopy. Let me put this another way. You are an extremely beautiful woman, but it looks as though you have a pound of roast beef sliding out of your cunt! It has to go.”
Ms. Tomyka then informed me that I was going to call Beverly Hills’ most popular plastic surgeon (you may have seen his reality show on TV) and schedule a labioplasty.
The doctor protested when I told him (in accordance with Tomyka’s instructions) that I also wanted to be circumcised…to have my clitoris removed along with my labia minora. I told him I needed to be circumcised as a religious observance. He still protested. When I told him how much money I was going to pay him, he said yes.
My labia and clitoris now float in a jar of preservative that has been added to the shrine to Tomyka that also includes the plaque I presented to her when she returned from her trip to New Orleans. Now that I have been circumcised, my only means of obtaining orgasm is through the manipulation of my G spot via the skillful tantric massage Tomyka gives me when I’m being rewarded. I am happy to report that the resulting orgasms are explosive!
Once my inner lips were gone, my outer lips snapped shut, forming a tight clamshell-type seam . I blush every time I see myself because my hairless condition and the tight seam of my vagina make me look about eight years old. Tomyka and Carmen both just laugh and say I look cute!
As time has gone on, Ms. Tomyka has made additional changes to that particular part of my anatomy. Where my pubic hair once nestled now sits an elaborate tattoo. It’s quite beautiful and looks like an intricate mass of twisting vines and leaves. If you stare at the tattoo for any length of time, eventually you’ll see that the vines and leaves form the name “Tomyka.”
The tattoo artist who produced my beautiful Tomyka tattoo also pierced each of my labia four times. Shiny gold filament was threaded through the piercings, lacing shut my vagina. The two ends of the filament that dangled between my legs were soldered together. From the soldered joint dangles a little bell—a constant, tinkling reminder of my infibulation that sounds as I move about.
A few years ago there was an embarrassing picture of me that made the rounds on the internet. A paparazzi snapped my picture as I was exiting a car on a night I went commando and didn’t bother wearing panties. The entire world got quite an eyeful, thanks to the internet!
Ms. Tomyka has made sure that will never happen again. I can’t leave the house without panties unless I want to explain the tinkling music constantly coming from in between my thighs. If Ms. Tomyka forbids me to wear underwear, I have to keep the bell held between the cheeks of my bottom in order to stop it from making an embarrassing racket.
The piercings at the top of my lips also hold a horizontal bar. The bar anchors a curved shaft on a hinge that allows the shaft to swing towards or away from my body. When positioned between my legs the shaft curves right up into my pussy. At the end of the shaft is a ball positioned perfectly to massage my G spot. That thing drives me crazy!
Chapter V
“We’re going on vacation for a few weeks,” Tomyka announced one day. “However, it might be more accurate to say that I’m going on vacation—you’re going to get a taste of what life is like for the little people who buy your records.”
Tomyka and I both wanted my identity disguised during our trip. We called in Raul, the makeup and special effects whiz who had done spectacular work on several of my videos. We told him I needed a disguise in order to travel incognito so I could research a movie role.
My mass of golden curls was hidden under a brown pageboy wig. Contact lenses changed my piercing blue eyes to brown. A pair of clunky eyeglasses and lack of makeup further disguised me.
The biggest change in my appearance was due to the fat suit Raul devised. It was an ingenius design—easy on/easy off so I could wear it each day while Tomyka and I were away.
Internet fan sites had long ago decreed that I was the owner of the best-ass-ever. Perhaps, but once I was in the fat suit, that world class bootie looked as though it was buried under fifty pounds of jiggling blubber. Not to mention my suddenly huge stomach and breasts. Once in the fat suit and attired in the dowdy clothing selected by Tomyka, the person in the mirror bore no resemblance to Courtney Lancer, pop superstar.
Tomyka and I travelled with her as my beautiful and glamorous boss and me as “Evelyn,” her frumpy personal assistant. As she lay on the beach or went to dinner with men who found her fascinating, I was sent scurrying to and fro doing chores for her.
I never felt so invisible. As the fat, frumpy and bespectacled Evelyn I would waddle down the street to run some sort of errand for Tomyka and I realized that for the first time in my life I was invisible to men. I was used to having men crane their necks to steal a look at me, but now—my presence was not acknowledged. Their eyes did not involuntarily track my movements. It was as if I didn’t exist.
Women acknowledged my existence, but in a negative way—when girls passed me on the street, their eyes would scan me and sometimes I’d catch a brief smirk at the fat girl who could never compete with them for the attentions of men. One time two cute girls passed me on the street... I felt a delicious wave of humiliation when I heard one say to the other, “Gawd, what a fat-ass! I’m sure she owns lots of cats.”
As the cruel beauties strolled away, I realized all the more the power of great beauty and wondered why it was so exciting to give it up. My employee was sipping daiquiris poolside while I was sent to fetch her dry cleaning and I was loving every minute of it!
“I’m going back home to prepare for your next video shoot,” said Tomyka after we had been away for two weeks.
“You are remaining here…but not on vacation. You are going to work as a member of the housekeeping staff for the rest of the month. The manager of the housekeeping department in this hotel is a friend. I have made arrangements for you to be on her staff (it’s amazing what you can arrange when money isn’t an object). Here’s her card. Report to her office at 8:00 tomorrow morning. You will receive training regarding your new duties and uniforms be be worn while you’re on duty.
For the next two weeks I found myself pushing a cart down the halls of the hotel as I cleaned rooms. Towards the end of my “working vacation” I was cleaning a room that had been trashed by some college kids on spring break. The little brats were out at the beach as I cleaned the room in which they had partied hearty the night before. There, on on the dresser, along with empty beer bottles, crumpled snack bags, and a used condom (Yuck! I know you’re on vacation, but have a little consideration for the staff, for God’s sake!) was one of my CD’s.
I looked at the photograph of myself on the cover of the CD, looking oh-so-hot in a red latex jumpsuit, my erect nipples and camel toe displayed to great effect. That cover generated a lot of buzz when it first came out. The poster made from that photo hung in as many bedrooms as Farah Fawcett’s ramous red bathing suit pinup did a generation earlier. My gaze drifted from the cover of the CD to my reflection in the mirror. The frumpy hotel maid I saw looking back at me bore no resemblance to the sexy pop tart on the cover of the CD.
I felt a wave of pleasure sweep through me as I savored my degradation. I still didn’t completely understand why I found humiliation and surrendering power to be so sexually exciting. I assumed it had something to do with the need to strike some sort of balance in my psyche. I guess it’s just as unhealthy to always get your ass kissed as it is to always be a doormat.
Disguised as Evelyn, I flew home when my two weeks of employment as a hotel housekeeper ended. As I stared out the window of the plane I wondered what Tomyka had been up to while I was away. I would learn soon enough that she was about to take things to a whole new level!
Chatper VI
As I stepped out of the limousine and onto the red carpet, I entered a storm of flash bulbs. I was attending the very high-profile National Cancer Research Foundation’s (NCRF) annual televised fund raising dinner and show. I have raised millions of dollars in charitable contributions for the foundation over the years, and I am an honorary member of the foundation’s board of directors. Tonight I was scheduled as both a speaker and a performer. There was a lot of interest in the program because tonight I would be premiering my new single, “I’ll Pull You Through.” The TV audience was projected to be huge.
I stopped along the red carpet to be interviewed by all the usual entertainment and fashion TV magazines. My gown got an A+ rating on various fashionista’s blogs, but that was not the biggest splash I made that evening.
When my turn came to address the room full of distinguished guests, I was escorted to the podium along with Emily, a young cancer patient who was bald due to chemotherapy. She covered her baldness with a jeweled kerchief that matched her gown.
“Thank you all for being here tonight and for being so generous in your support of the NCRF’s wonderful efforts. Tonight I want to tell you about a new program the NCRF is beginning that we are calling “Locks of Love.” Our goal is to provide high quality wigs to our sisters who have lost their hair during chemotherapy.”
“Our sisters should not have to feel they are unattractive because their therapy renders them bald. They are beautiful no matter what they look like because they are our mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. We love them and support them 100% in their fight! So, if a wig improves their self esteem, we will make sure they have wigs. Understand though, that there is a larger question here…we need to redefine our concept of beauty. Our sisters are beautiful whether they have hair or not!”
“For the time being, though, the girls need the wigs. I stand in solidarity with our sisters as they fight their battle…but I know that talk is cheap. That’s why I’m putting my hair where my mouth is!”
The audience and Emily gasped as I pulled the wig from my head. My bald and shiny head positively glowed under the lights.
“This wig is made from my own hair,” I explained as I held the mass of golden curls aloft. “It is being donated to the Locks of Love program along with my promise to remain bald for as long as Emily does. When her course of chemo is completed and her hair grows back, I will do the same.”
The crowd rose to a thunderous ovation as Emily and I embraced. She cried and whispered, “Thank you,” as she removed her kerchief for the slew of pictures that were taken of our matching bald heads.
My bald head caused a sensation. My “stunt” as some called it, was the lead story on every news broadcast and in every newspaper. The publicity actually started a fashion trend. Many newly bald (and I might add, very beautiful) women were seen in every major city for months following my grand unveiling.
What I found most gratifying during the months following the NCRF show was that a real conversation was started in society about how we define the feminine ideal and how unhealthy it was for so many young girls to be fed a constant diet of totally unrealistic airbrushed and photo shopped images that no one—not even the model who posed for the pictures—could possibly attain in real life.
As if my introduction to the world of my shiny bald head wasn’t enough excitement for one night, the furor following that evening’s performance of “I’ll Pull You Through” made an even bigger splash.
My performance caused a sensation. The S&M-themed costumes, coupled with suggestive movements made for a hotter show than was typical for prime time TV. Things got really out of hand when one of the dancers, while sliding between my legs, accidently caught a piece of my costume and tore it away—leaving me naked from the waist down. For a few seconds it was obvious to the national TV audience that the carpet had been as thoroughly removed as the curtains and my gold lacing and dangling bell caught the light perfectly.
Being a consummate professional, I didn’t miss a beat and was covered again in a few seconds. It wasn’t fast enough for the talking heads on 24-7 cable news.
“An outrage!” screamed the media. The FCC levied a record fine against the network because of my “wardrobe malfunction.”
It didn’t matter. In this business, any publicity is good publicity. The net effect was that I sold an incredible amount of records. The notoriety may have caused initial interest, but it was the quality of the music that grabbed the fans and the music critics. I had worked very hard to bring the music and the lyrics up to another level (a girl can’t stay a young pop princess forever—ask the Spice Girls!). Critics and fans weighed in very favorably saying the music was the most sophisticated melding of African and Caribbean musical styles that had been heard in quite some time and that the lyrics were a thoughtful commentary on living in the era of a crumbling empire.
The title of the hit single was “I’ll Pull You Through,” a promise by a friend or lover to be there when times are toughest. We sold millions of copies of the song and almost as many digital downloads of the video.
The video for “I’ll Pull You Through” left peoples’ mouths hanging open. In it, a phalanx of fifty pony girls pulled their passengers on a trip around the world past great landmarks. The pony girls pulled their passengers past everywhere from the Eiffel Tower to the Great Pyramids to the Great Wall of China. It was not lost on the audience that all of the ponies were white and all of the passengers flicking the riding whips across the ponies’ bottoms were women of color. Ethnic princesses from a world-wide range of cultures, each dressed in beautiful traditional clothing her country were pulled in their elaborate carts by their white pony girls in full equine regalia, each with a tall feathered head dress (which still made it obvious she was bald) body harnesses, tails anchored securely in their bottoms and bits in their mouths.
The DVD of the video contained a “making of documentary,” in which each of the 50 models and actresses portraying the ponies squatted around the perimeter of my pool as each was attended by a team of Asian and Black stylists who shaved and polished their heads, did their makeup and nails, got each pony dressed in her pony gear and attached each pony to her respective cart. This scene included a hysterical sequence of the expression on each girl’s face as her tail was securely planted into her bottom! All of the girls’ hair was of course donated to Locks of Love.
The fuss over the video only increased as the DVD version went on sale. In addition to the official video and the behind the scenes “making of” documentary, I also insisted on including the European version, in which, while all of the ethnic princesses retained their elaborate traditional costumes, all of the white ponies—with me at the head of the pack, pulling Tomyka—were quite nude except for our headdresses, our swishing tails and the stripes placed across our churning bottoms by the princesses for whose benefit we toiled.
The video was a sensation. Some saw it as a comment on the end of the era of European colonialism and exploitation. Others saw it as bringing kinky fashion further into the mainstream. Everybody had something to say. A blowhard on Fox News actually had a heart attack on screen while fulminating about the immortality of it all. On the other end of the spectrum, Rolling Stone said I was the greatest thing to happen to popular music in quite some time, bridging the gap between pop, art and politics in a way few artists have.
The wrap party was a sight to behold. All of the ladies of color were allowed to keep their costumes. Each of the ponies was required to attend the party in the nude. The price of admission for each white girl was her eyebrows, removing the last bit of hair left on their bodies. It was quite a sight. A roomfull of beautiful women of color in elaborate traditional costume being waited on and attended to by a bevy of hairless pink droids.
Tomyka looked out on the scene as I knelt at her feet and said it was a dream come true.
I felt the same way.