The White Bitch of the Foreigners (PART 1)

I don't know exactly when I started getting excited about the idea of being used by men like him. I suppose it was always there, lurking, like an animal that doesn't bite but breathes on the back of your neck. It was in college when I truly felt it, with a name, face, and smell. His name is Youssef. And he's... damn perfect.

At that time, I was 20 years old. I was studying Engineering and spent more time in the gym than in the library. I'm strong-built, with marked arms, a broad chest, and a square jaw. My light skin contrasts with my brown beard, which I always keep well-groomed. I wear an earring in one ear and like to dress tight to show off my body. In photos, I like myself, but in the mirror, even more. I lived alone in a studio near campus, and although my life seemed pretty standard, what I've never told anyone is what really defines me from within.

Sometimes I masturbate imagining things that would be embarrassing to write in a diary. Fantasies where I'm a white whore at the service of black, Arab, dark-skinned, foreign men. Fantasies where I don't have a name, just holes. Where they insult me, humiliate me, tell me I'm only good for that. And I couldn't stop cumming with that in my head. I've never told anyone. Until today.

Youssef sat two rows in front of me in Fluid Mechanics class. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his voice made me hard. He has that soft but masculine accent, like each word carries testosterone behind it. He's tall, strong, with a closed beard and dark eyes that don't look: they pierce. He always wore sports clothes, the kind that highlights his package and legs. And an expensive watch on his wrist that didn't match anything, but gave him an air of a macho with money. Sometimes I saw him arrive on a motorcycle. Or with friends who seemed to be taken from a gangster movie. I masturbated thinking about all of them.

We weren't friends. Not even group mates. But sometimes I saw him looking at me. Or so I thought. And when he did, I had to cross my legs. Not out of modesty, but so my erection wouldn't show. I've imagined many times going behind him, asking him to let me suck him, use me, share me. Begging him.

One night, looking at his photos and touching myself even after cumming, I told myself: "Why not?" I had nothing to lose. Or a lot. But it was almost a necessity. I wrote to him on Instagram. I told him - I don't know how I had the balls - that I liked him. That he turned me on. That if he wanted, we could meet discreetly. That he should come to my house to fuck me like I was nothing. Like an object. That he should leave me on the floor, naked, used. That I wanted to feel like I belonged to him. That the next day I would act like nothing happened.

It took him two days to respond. He only wrote three words:

"Are you sure?"

My fingers trembled. I replied with a single word:

"Yes."

He didn't write again. But the next day, in c...