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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Sissy Headhunters
by Kimmie Holland & Meeah Mackenzie (meeah535@aol.com)
***
Andy was flattered to be recruited by a team of
corporate headhunters... but the position they have in
mind -- neutered white sissy slave -- is not exactly
the career change he'd hoped for. (MF/M, nc, v, intr,
tv, bd, cast)
***
**One**
Andy tried not to be obvious about it: but it was hard
not to notice that there wasn't another white person in
the entire restaurant. He'd let Mr. Asad pick the place
of their lunch meeting. Maybe that was a mistake. But
he wanted to make sure everything was to the black
man's liking. Andy hadn't landed an account in months
so when he'd been contacted by a corporate "headhunter"
he'd been surprised—and relieved. As the fiscal year
was drawing to a close, Andy suspected that his boss
Mr. Baumgarten was about to cut division losses by
giving Andy the axe.
So here he was, the only white person in a swank
downtown African restaurant being courted by a high-
powered business team. Very cool, he thought. He'd
couldn't wait to tell his girlfriend Alison about it.
She'd been on his case lately about not having any
ambition to make something out of himself. She was very
success-oriented, Andy frowned, thinking about his
sleek, rich, country-club girlfriend. If he didn't show
some potential real soon, Andy sensed that she'd be
giving him the axe, as well.
"Is something wrong Andy," Mr. Asad asked, draping his
arm over Andy's shoulders, like they were already old
pals. An alpha-male thing, no doubt. "You looked sad,
all of a sudden."
"Oh no, no... not at all," Andy chased away thoughts of
his women troubles, and smiled brightly. He had to pay
attention to the business at hand; he couldn't let this
golden opportunity slip away. "I was just trying to
figure out what to order. The menu...well, its written
in a foreign language."
The black man threw back his head and laughed. "Don't
worry your pretty little head about a thing. I'll order
what you need."
Andy laughed, too, not knowing what it was he said that
was so funny. Mr. Asad's English was quite good, but
there were times that Andy wondered if they were both
understanding each other completely. "Pretty little
head..." indeed! Clearly, Mr. Asad hadn't grasped what
the phrase meant in English, that it was inappropriate
to use for a man...
Enough.
For now, he had to concentrate all his attention on the
proposition at hand. Mr. Asad had brought along two of
his partners, Mr. Ikamau and Mr. Tedros. Like Mr. Asad,
they were both tall, well-muscled men with sleek blue-
black skin. Andy was completely outclassed during the
raquetball game they'd insisted on playing before
lunch. And it was only worse in the shower afterwards.
Andy felt tiny and soft among their hard, large, black
bodies. Andy was trying not to peek at the other men,
bll three of them had openly appraised Andy's naked
body. He figured it was either the difference between
their two cultures or some kind of intimidation tactic;
if it were the latter, then it had definitely worked.
Under their unnerving scrutiny, which included a fairly
intense conversation in their African language that
seemed to specifically refer to aspects of his naked
body, Andy had blushed a bright pink from the blond
roots of his scalp all the way down to his bare pink
toes.
He hoped he could do better to get a handle on the
interview here at lunch.
Now, he stared at the menu written in some
indecipherable African dialect and looked up helplessly
at Mr. Asad. More intimidation?
All three black men laughed at Andy's obvious
bewilderment and Mr. Asad, as he'd promised, ordered
for him. Then the three men once gain conversed in
African amongst themselves, all but ignoring Andy
entirely. Once in a while, one of the men would point
at Andy, and make a comment to one of the others. Just
like in the shower. Then they would all laugh again, or
make low whistling noises or gestures that struck Andy
as quite obscene. Smiling along, as if he knew what
they were saying, Andy nodded his head in agreement,
and that would make them laugh even more.
God, he thought, the things we do for money! As
interviews went, it sure may have been the strangest,
but at least it seemed to be going well. He doubted
they'd take him out to eat if they weren't interested
in him.
And they did seem interested in him.
Andy wondered if it were some old tribal custom of
assessing his worth as a prospective member of the
tribe the way the black men had squeezed his arms and
thighs in the shower, or how they'd grabbed his ass,
turning him this way and that, examining him from every
angle. They'd made him bend down and grab his ankles.
They'd made him stand with his hands behind his head.
They'd tweaked his nipples. They examined his mouth,
pulled out his tongue, felt his balls. They made him
kneel down under the shower head with his hands clasped
behind his back, his eyes closed, and his face turned
up to the spray.
And the whole time they spoke to each other as if
evaluating him, as if they were testing him. The warm
water suddenly felt about ten degrees warmer and,
though Andy didn't dare open his eyes since he'd been
told to keep them closed, he couldn't help thinking
that for all he knew the three black men were each, one
by one, holding their cocks over Andy and pissing in
his upturned face.
Jesus! What would even make him think of such a thing?
And, having thought of such a humiliating image, why
had it caused his cock to spontaneously and
embarrasingly grow erect right there in front of the
three men? And were they laughing at the fact that he
was sporting a hard-on, kneeling there in front of him
in the shower, or was it because that, even flaccid,
their cocks were nearly twice the size of his fully
erect?
He was only trying to land a job, Andy thought, nothing
more. His was not to reason why...
As they continued to put him through his paces in the
shower, Andy kept telling himself that the African men
had different customs, different attitudes, and that to
refuse any of their commands was to run the risk of
insulting them and throwing away a golden opportunity.
So Andy unquestioningly obeyed his three prospective
black bosses with a docile demeanor and a demure smile
that he hoped was pleasing to them. They were in a
position superior to his own, they called the shots,
and, somehow, the fact that they were so big, so black,
so in effortlessly in control, his total obedience
seemed perfectly natural.
Andy felt himself flush again and hardly realizing it a
tiny pearl of precum was decorating the tip of his
returning erection...
The food had arrived—or rather, only Andy's had
arrived: it was a small plate that he figured was an
appetizer. Mr. Asad insisted that Andy begin eating.
Mr. Ikamau and Mr. Tedros watched with great interest.
Andy figured it was another rite of passage: see if the
white boy can stomach real African food. Probably some
kind of gross delicacy like musk ox intestine or
broiled grubs, Andy thought. He poked around with his
fork a little to find something that looked reasonably
safe. Oh well, he thought, here goes nothing.
He smiled at the black men and daintily ate a morsel.
Within seconds the spicy food caused Andy to break out
in a sweat. The black men exchanged a few words and Mr.
Asad motioned impatiently for Andy to keep eating.
Andy took a few more small bites and he now began
sweating profusely. He muttered an apology and looked
for his water glass, but his vision seemed all screwed
up somehow. Even worse, he was beginning to have
difficulty breathing. Act normal, act normal, Andy told
himself. He should excuse himself and go to the men's
room until whatever it was passed.
Somehow he didn't seem to be able to get himself to
move. He was trying to act normally, but he was panting
and sweating and feeling chilled. He'd begun to tremble
all over. What was the matter with him? An allergy?
Food poisoning? He tried to ask Mr. Asad where the
men's room might be. But the black man was nodding his
approval, patting Andy's forehead with a napkin, and
grinning.
As if reading his mind, Mr. Asad held up a glass of
water and held it to Andy's lips as he sipped. It
tasted rather funny...
Andy felt very strange by now—as if he had to remember
that he was inside his body. His fingers suddenly went
numb and he dropped the fork he'd been holding without
even realizing it and the numbness spread up his arms
to his shoulders. He panicked. Could he be having a
heart attack? He was too young to have a heart
attack...wasn't he?
He tried to say something to Mr. Asad but the black man
told him to be calm. He tried one last time to get to
his feet but Mr. Assad laid a strong black hand on his
shoulder and gently forced Andy to remain in his seat.
He found he was was too weak to try again. Andy saw Mr.
Ikamau calmly take out his cell phone. He spoke in
African, quick, hard, efficient words. He wasn't
smiling, anymore. None of the black men were.
Andy understood only three words that Mr. Ikamau said:
9-1-1
**Two**
In the ambulance, Andy felt his clothes being cut from
his body. He tried to tell the black woman that he was
wearing his one good suit—the one he wore especially to
interviews—but she shocked him by telling him to shut
the fuck up. "You're not going to be needing your old
clothes anymore bitch," she sneered. She dumped his
cut-to-ribbons suit, along with the rest of his
clothes, his shoes, socks, underwear, all of it, into a
bag marked in big block letters: "WASTE."
Why were his clothes suddenly garbage? What was
happening to him?
He tried to get someone to explain, but no one would
listen. Everyone in the back of the ambulance was
moving quickly and super-efficiently. From the way they
were acting, Andy could only assume it really was
serious. Something bad must have happened to him. But
other than a slightly sick feeling in the pit of his
stomach and a bit of dizziness left over from his
fainting spell back at the restaurant, he really didn't
feel that badly. Andy wanted to tell someone he was
feeling much better, but no one was listening to him.
The black doctor who seemed to be in charge told one of
the all-black EMT staff to prep him.
Prep him—for what?
They'd strapped him down to a gurney back in the
restaurant. Now they began sticking needles into his
arms. He saw his legs being raised and spread. Someone
gave him an injection in his spine. Everything below
his waist went cold and weak. Something huge was
inserted into his asshole, stretching him out. Andy
moaned. He tried to tell them to stop, but the a
pretty, mocha-skinned nurse was determined to get
whatever it was stuffed all the way inside him.
Andy started crying.
Mr. Asad knelt beside Andy's gurney. His chiseled ebony
face looked cool and impersonal. Like an African mask
above a sacrificial altar.
"Am I—am I dying?" Andy sobbed. He hardly dared asked
the question for fear of the answer. He felt dizzy and
disoriented. They'd stuck needles into his chest and he
felt a terrible pressure slowly building up there, like
he was being filled with air or water or something...
"Listen to me carefully bitch," Mr. Assad said.
Why were they being so mean to him, why did they keep
calling him bitch...?
"Who are you? What are you doing to me? You aren't a
headhunter, are you?"
"I am a headhunter alright, but perhaps not the kind
you were hoping for?" the black man smiled, showing his
teeth. " I'm employed for an outfit that supplies
African men and women of distinction with white slave
sissies, such as yourself."
Andy tried to interrupt. Mr. Asad had it wrong. He
wasn't a sissy. They didn't tell him that this was the
position they were looking to fill. No, this wasn't the
job for him.
The black man cut him off before Andy could say a word.
"I'm a professional. I can spot a prospect a mile away.
You have sissy written all over you. The potential is
obvious. I'm only surprised you haven't been captured
already. My good fortune, eh?" The smile Andy had seen
early once again spread across Mr. Asad's handsome
black face, but it didn't seem nearly so friendly
anymore. "You'll fetch a nice commission." He turned to
the nurse monitoring the tubes attached to Andy's
chest. "Make them bigger. We've got a client with a
breast fetish." He looked back at Andy and saw the
anguished confusion in the young sissy's face. He
laughed. "I don't expect you to understand much of this
right now. But believe me, you'll understand soon
enough. By then, it'll be too late to change anything.
In the meantime, I suggest you try to relax and let
what happens happen."
No, Andy thought, I won't let it happen. This is
madness. If this was some kind of kidnapping, they'd
taken the wrong person. His family didn't have any
money and his girlfriend's family didn't think he was
good enough to be dating their daughter in the first
place. It was his need to gain their approval—and
Alison's respect—that he'd gone on this interview in
the first place! They would never pay a dime to get him
back. They'd be only too glad he was out of the
picture.
Was it possible...no, it couldn't be true that they'd
paid to get rid of him, could it? Andy felt a hopeless
paralyzing terror. What if it were? Why go through all
this trouble? Why not just pay someone to kill him,
make it look like a mugging...
What Mr. Asad was saying...it just didn't make any
sense. These sorts of things just didn't happen in real
life! Andy tried to follow the surreal explanation the
black man was giving him for his abduction.
"Normally we like to bring a sissy like you along nice
and slowly with behavior and body modification," Mr.
Asad was saying. "But I'm afraid in this instance we
have no time for all that. We've had an
unfortunate...erm, accident...with the processing and
preparation of one of our sissy slaves just prior to
her delivery. She needs to be replaced a.s.a.p since we
need to fill an order quickly. A very V.I.P. client.
Impossible to disappoint.
"We need an emergency sissy, and, you my dear, are it.
You fit the type our client specified, little bitch,
and with some quick alterations, you should do just
fine. Now we're going to have to operate on you right
now. We need to get started on your prep immediately.
But not to worry, we'll finish you up when we get you
overseas and this particular client doesn't expect you
to be fully functional anyway..."
Andy felt something cold grasp his testicles, holding
them up with an impersonal and mechanical precision. He
he looked down between his legs to see his balls pulled
up and away from his body, held in a pair of long-nosed
surgical forceps wielded by a heavy-set black man in
pale-green scrubs. Meanwhile, the pretty mocha-colored
nurse stepped forward with a length of surgical cord.
Without a word, she bent down and began the process of
tying off Andy's ball-sack close to the root of his
penis. Andy wanted to tell her that she was tying it
too tightly but the sickening sensation in the pit of
his tummy made it impossible to speak; it was all he
could do, it seemed, to keep from vomiting. He heard
the angry buzz of an industrial strength electric
razor. He made on last effort to free himself and when
that failed he tried to thrash around in the vain
attempt to hold off the inevitable just a few seconds
longer but he was bound too tightly. He felt a thick
cold foul-smelling jelly being spread over his groin,
over his tummy, down to his knees.
"Please, please, please," he moaned, "don't do this,
don't do this to me."
A tall very beautiful black woman in a surgical mask
appeared at the foot of his gurney; she stood
imperiously, like a high-priestess, between his
painfully spread knees. She nodded to the tech holding
Andy's tied-off scrotum in the steel forceps. The color
of his swollen ball sack was already alarming. The
baby-pink flesh had turned an ominous shade of purple.
It was all becoming clear what was about to happen, but
Andy still didn't want to believe it, didn't want to
see the scalpel in the beautiful doctor's hand. Andy
turned to Mr. Assad for help but knew that it was
hopeless. He screamed but no one seemed to care. The
scalpel slit through Andy's numb sac with startling
ease. The black woman's two gloved fingers pried free
his left testicle. Once again Andy thought he'd vomit.
The doctor, called for a scissors. The mocha-colored
nurse handed them to her. The doctor held the scissors
up to the light as much for her own inspection as for
Andy to see and fully grasp what was about to happen;
she slowly opened and closed the scissors twice,
testing them. They snicked together with a flawless
exactitude. With the scissors in one hand and his
bluish-red testicle extracted and held between the
gloved fingers of the other, the doctor looked Andy
coldly in the eye for the first and last time, ignoring
his mute appeal, like a snake about to strike a
cowering, trembling mouse.
Without a word, she quickly and efficiently snipped the
testicles free. Andy felt himself falling into a faint.
Mr. Assad was talking to someone on the other side of
the gurney upon which Andy's naked, bound, and now
half-neutered body lay helpless. The black headhunter
was telling whoever it was to make Andy's tits even
bigger.
The sissy's new owners wanted a real big-titted white
slut. Meanwhile, Andy decided to take Mr. Assad's
advice and try to relax and let whatever happened
happen. There was nothing he could do about it now; it
was out of his hands. The doctor slit his other ball
sack, pulled free his remaining testicle, and snipped
it free. It didn't seem possible, that his life could
be changed just like that, with a couple of snips of a
scissors. But lives quickly changed suddenly all the
time. A car accident, a street mugging, an interview
with a prospective employer...
The tech and nurse were grinning down at him now. Mr.
Asad looked pleased. Andy felt his empty ball sack fall
against his plugged asshole. The doctor held up the
steel surgical tray where his bloody testicles lay for
Andy to see. She picked up one, rolled it between her
gloved finger, and gave an order to the pretty mocha-
colored nurse, who removed the doctor's mask. She put
the testicle into her mouth, first the one and then the
other, and she very slowly chewed it. Her cold level
gaze never once left the bewildered sissy's face; her
unblinking eyes fixed in primal triumph on the glazed-
over eyes of the newly neutered slave.
**Three**
His name is now Adrianna and not even his own mother
would recognize him, let alone his ex-girlfriend
Alison, although he'll never see either of them, or
anyone else from his old life ever again. He's a
braceleted and collared slave in the large house of a
wealthy African couple in Uganda. It is now quite
fashionable for the African elite to own white shemale
slaves, a status symbol that flaunts the complete
reversal of social stations, from the time when white
males were considered at the top of the pyramid.
Adrianna's hair is a long golden mane which frames a
kewpie doll face whose wide blue eyes and hear-shaped
pink pout seem to be always begging for a fucking. In
accordance with the wishes of his owners, he's been
given a pair of tits rather too large for his slight
frame—one of Master's favorite deviations being to
slide his big black pole between the oiled globes of
Adriana's pale tit meat and to shoot his thick load
into the sissy's open mouth.
Adrianna's entire wardrobe consists of nothing more
than a complex web of thin chains that form a kind of
tiny bikini fixed in place by the multiple piercings
that now adorn her soft, waifish body. A pair of
severely-arched, ultra-high heels are locked onto his
slender feet—all other times, he is kept barefoot. In
addition, his sissypuss is always plugged with a
replica in rubber of his Master's cock. His ankle is
tattooed with the designs that mark him as property of
his Master and Mistress's house. The penalty for
attempted escape is severe: death by public
crucifixion.
There is no escape, of course.
And a slave like Adriana doesn't even consider it.
"Fixed," the way he is now, he could no longer survive
in the world outside the compound of his Master and
Mistress. He is not only a slave for life but slavery
is now what keeps him alive.
As a personal slave to his Mistress, Adrianna performs
all manner of services befitting his lowly position—
attending to his Mistress's most intimate toilet; from
pedicures to vaginal douches, from her makeup to wiping
her ass after a bowel movement, these are duties that
Adrianna has come to see as the most important in his
life. Mistress will sometimes request a foot massage or
even amuse herself by having her slave suck on her long
brown toes after an afternoon of shopping—even in
public or in front of friends. Adrianna has been well-
trained, some might even say torture, to carry out
commands without any hesitation or outward show of
shame.
Only very rarely does Mistress utilize Adrianna for any
form of sexual pleasure. Only her slave's tongue would
be of use, anyway, and Mistress much prefers the
penetration of a real man, an act, which, naturally,
the castrated shemale neuter can no longer perform.
What remains of Adrianna's former sex is now no more
than a limp pee-tube of soft white meat; it is as
useless sexually as an earlobe and, like an earlobe,
it's been pierced and decorated in order to make it
look pretty.
To his Mistress—a strong woman who naturally enjoys the
company of a strong man—a creature such as Adrianna is
beneath contempt. Not a man, not a woman, but a non-
human, an "it." She would no more think of having sex
with something like Adrianna than she would a lamp: the
difference being you could turn a lamp on.
It was primarily his Master who required Adrianna's
sexual services. Tall, broad-shouldered, black as a wet
tar, with the naturally imposing presence and
authentically dominant nature of the big-bellied
African chieftains from whom he was directly descended,
Adrianna's Master was in the prime of his manly life
and had a sex drive every bit as prodigious as his
heavy-balled, thick, ten-inch penis would lead one to
believe. It was to satisfy this voracious and seemingly
never fully sated appetite for all the variations of
the entire sexual banquet Adriana found himself put to
service.
Any and all of the practices that his Mistress deemed
too disgusting or demeaning for a queenly woman such as
herself to submit to satisfying, it was Adrianna's
responsibility to perform. Oral and anal sex were
merely the beginning for Adrianna's Master enjoyed
placing his slave in various forms of extended bondage,
shitting in Adrianna's mouth, beating him with a bamboo
stick on the ass, the tits, or the bottoms of his pale
feet, having his prize-winning Rhodesian Ridgebacks
fuck Adrianna in the ass, etc. There was mummification,
breath-play, electric shock and other dangerous
fetishes that could, either accidentally or by design,
cost Adrianna his life. But this was one of the hazards
of being a slave and Adrianna strove hard to please so
that his Master would continue to consider his sissy a
greater source of pleasure alive than dead.
So this is Adrianna's life from now until it ends. It's
not the life he would have chosen, or the one he
thought he'd have; nor is it where he ever imagined
he'd end up when he was contacted by those headhunters
what now seems ages and ages ago. And yet how many
among us can say that our life has turned out exactly
as we planned it? Very few of us dream of becoming the
castrated she-male sex slave of a wealth African
couple. And even fewer of us ever actually see our
dream come true.
Adrianna did. Perhaps—whether he believes himself to be
or not—we should consider him lucky?
--the end--
For more stuff by us please visit:
http://thefreakbox.blogspot.com/
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edit
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 60