Sissy White Boy Goes Undercover in the Hood! 3 - Sissy White Boy Goes Undercover in the Hood!, #3

The chair was already pulled out.

Terrence had been standing for her since she'd come off the stage. Six-three. Bald. Black blazer over a black tee. The gold chain in the V of the shirt. The kind of body you don't build in a gym. A face that didn't smile until he wanted it to.

Five Black men sat around his table. Five sets of eyes on the sissy in wedges crossing the VIP floor.

The chair was for her.

Krystal sat.

The cage between her thighs was leaking through the booty shorts onto the leather. The crew saw it before she did.

Terrence's arm went around the back of her neck. His other hand landed on her bare thigh. He didn't say her name. He didn't have to. The cock under his slacks was already half-hard against her hip.

The crew at the table didn't waste time. They yanked the crop top up over her chest. They pulled the booty shorts down to her wedges. They put the cage on display in the middle of the table.

A white sissy. Caged. Stripped to her ankles. Surrounded.

Two miles away, Detective Lauren Smith sat in a Detroit PD surveillance van with the headphones on. She didn't move when the first slap landed. She didn't move when Krystal screamed Daddy. She just let the wire record.

Terrence first. Then his cousin. Then the man with the gold pinky ring. Then the next one. And the next. Then the rotation started again. Slaps on the cheeks. Hands wrapped in the wig.

More.

And underneath the steel, the wire kept transmitting.

Two miles away in the van, Lauren listened to her boyfriend take twelve hours of Black men.

She listened to Krystal call them Daddy.

She listened to Krystal beg for it harder.

She wrote the timestamps in the case file.

When the bass went quiet at four AM and the crew filed out the back door of Club Onyx one by one, Lauren put the van in drive.

She pulled into the alley at dawn.

Krystal stumbled out the back door alone. Mascara to the chin. Wig sideways. Walking like she couldn't walk straight because she couldn't.

Lauren reached across the passenger seat and opened the door.

"Get in, baby."

Krystal got in.

The voice that came out of her in the car wasn't Kevin's anymore. It wasn't even the practiced femme voice Lauren had drilled into her. It was something new. Something twelve hours in a strip-club booth had welded shut and reset.

It was permanent.

Lauren put the car in drive.

The case closed on a Friday.

Thirteen convictions. The chief stood on the courthouse steps next to Lauren and shook the prosecutor's hand on TV. Krystal watched it from their couch in panties and the cage. Hormones started. Voice permanently set. Soft skin growing softer.

Three weeks after the sting, Lauren walked down to the chief's office on a Thursday night the way she'd walked down to it every Thursday for six months.

The door was cracked open.

She'd heard sounds like that through this door before. This time it wasn't her in there.

She opened the door anyway.

Eight months later, in a small chapel outside Detroit, with snow falling through the high stained glass, two brides walked the aisle in white.

Lauren in cream. Belly soft and full.

Krystal in pearl. Cage under the gown.

Two brides in matching white.

Both bred by Black men.

One by a club full of thugs at the back of a strip club.

The other by the chief at the back of this chapel.