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Sissy White Boy Goes Undercover in the Hood! 2. Sissy White Boy Goes Undercover in the Hood!, #2
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- FormatePub
- ISBN8235297777
- EAN9798235297777
- Date de parution09/06/2026
- Protection num.pas de protection
- Infos supplémentairesepub
- ÉditeurIoakim Ioakim
Résumé
The training wasn't over. Krystal lived in panties and a bra and a skirt now. She did the dishes in wedges. She ironed Lauren's uniforms with the bra straps sliding down her shoulders. She slept in the cage on Lauren's keyring. That part had been the easy part. The waxing was the next part. Lauren brought it home from the drugstore on a Tuesday. Three boxes of strips. Baby oil. Cotton pads. She knelt on the bath mat and ripped Krystal smooth one row at a time.
Shins. Thighs. Stomach. Up to the waistline. The next night she did everything below it - the hair around the cage, the patch on the balls, the dark between the cheeks. By the time the wax was done there wasn't a hair left on Krystal's body below the neck. Smooth from collarbones to toes. The only male thing left was the dick locked in the cage - and even that had stopped feeling male. Then the makeup.
Then the voice. Then the walk. By the night of the op Krystal was ready. Or as ready as Lauren needed her to be. Eleven PM at Club Onyx. Wedges on. Wig on. Wire on. Booty shorts so tight there was nothing to see in the front of them. A white sissy walking into a Black strip club in the hood with a hidden transmitter in the only piece of clothing her cop girlfriend wouldn't take off her. The men at the tables smacked her ass on the way to the dressing room.
Hands on her hips. Hands on her wig. A whistle two fingers from her ear. She made it to the GIRLS door with one tear track on her left cheek and the cage leaking through the booty shorts. Four Black women were waiting inside. They clocked her in one second. The thong girl on the couch dropped her deodorant on the floor and laughed. The vent girl exhaled a ribbon of smoke and called her sissy. The braids girl set her brush down and called her a faggot in a wig.
The dark-skin girl at the second mirror said the Adam's apple was showing through the foundation. They made Krystal spin. They made her lift the back of the shorts. They saw the cage. They saw the wedge of pink lace where there should have been more. Then the back hall door opened and the fifth dancer walked in. She was Black. She was tall. She wore lash extensions and bolt-on tits over a chest that wasn't a woman's.
She had a voice that started in the bones. Her name was Reyna. She handed Krystal a brush and told the new sissy that the back hall ritual came before the stage. The back hall ritual was on her knees. Bolt-ons. Glitter. A grip on the wig at the temples. The four dancers watching. The shorts soaking through. The cage hammering steel under the lace. Drool down the chin. Mascara streaking the foundation.
She swallowed. Then the dancers re-fixed Krystal's lipstick like she was their pet. New foundation. New blush. New gloss. Five minutes. A knock. Stage in two, sissy. Krystal walked the catwalk in wedges and a wig and booty shorts so tight there wasn't a man in the building who didn't see what wasn't underneath them. She danced the way Lauren had taught her. She got the tips. She got the slurs. She got the hands.
And when the song ended, the bouncer pointed her at one table at the back of the club. VIP. Past the rope. The table the owner of Club Onyx sat at when there was a new white girl on the schedule. Krystal walked off the stage. Pushed through the curtain. Onto the club floor - heading for the table....
Shins. Thighs. Stomach. Up to the waistline. The next night she did everything below it - the hair around the cage, the patch on the balls, the dark between the cheeks. By the time the wax was done there wasn't a hair left on Krystal's body below the neck. Smooth from collarbones to toes. The only male thing left was the dick locked in the cage - and even that had stopped feeling male. Then the makeup.
Then the voice. Then the walk. By the night of the op Krystal was ready. Or as ready as Lauren needed her to be. Eleven PM at Club Onyx. Wedges on. Wig on. Wire on. Booty shorts so tight there was nothing to see in the front of them. A white sissy walking into a Black strip club in the hood with a hidden transmitter in the only piece of clothing her cop girlfriend wouldn't take off her. The men at the tables smacked her ass on the way to the dressing room.
Hands on her hips. Hands on her wig. A whistle two fingers from her ear. She made it to the GIRLS door with one tear track on her left cheek and the cage leaking through the booty shorts. Four Black women were waiting inside. They clocked her in one second. The thong girl on the couch dropped her deodorant on the floor and laughed. The vent girl exhaled a ribbon of smoke and called her sissy. The braids girl set her brush down and called her a faggot in a wig.
The dark-skin girl at the second mirror said the Adam's apple was showing through the foundation. They made Krystal spin. They made her lift the back of the shorts. They saw the cage. They saw the wedge of pink lace where there should have been more. Then the back hall door opened and the fifth dancer walked in. She was Black. She was tall. She wore lash extensions and bolt-on tits over a chest that wasn't a woman's.
She had a voice that started in the bones. Her name was Reyna. She handed Krystal a brush and told the new sissy that the back hall ritual came before the stage. The back hall ritual was on her knees. Bolt-ons. Glitter. A grip on the wig at the temples. The four dancers watching. The shorts soaking through. The cage hammering steel under the lace. Drool down the chin. Mascara streaking the foundation.
She swallowed. Then the dancers re-fixed Krystal's lipstick like she was their pet. New foundation. New blush. New gloss. Five minutes. A knock. Stage in two, sissy. Krystal walked the catwalk in wedges and a wig and booty shorts so tight there wasn't a man in the building who didn't see what wasn't underneath them. She danced the way Lauren had taught her. She got the tips. She got the slurs. She got the hands.
And when the song ended, the bouncer pointed her at one table at the back of the club. VIP. Past the rope. The table the owner of Club Onyx sat at when there was a new white girl on the schedule. Krystal walked off the stage. Pushed through the curtain. Onto the club floor - heading for the table....
