As to the men and the main ANA meeting, all the westies crew had to do was plant a lookout or spy outside the hall with a cellphone to call in meeting start, end, and breaks. Pretty easy stuff. The wives of the ANA, where the action was, would be more difficult.
The wives of the ANA met in a different hotel as the ANA main group took up the only meeting room in their hotel. Their meeting was underway, with boring speakers just like their husbands. The hotel banquet room was beautiful, resplendent with bouquets of chrysanthemums.
All of a sudden, a black man in hotel employee regalia tapped the shoulder of the stocky woman speaking, saying that he had a surprise. The black dude said that the ANA men knew that the 'girls' would be bored stiff at this point (laughter throughout the room), so they had a little 'surprise' for them. He held out his hand, pointing to the big black man in a fur coat who came out on the podium. He carried a boom box big enough to announce Derek Jeter to the Yankee Stadium crowd. He hit the button and the rap started playing.
The wives of the ANA started fidgeting. What the hell was going on? Then, it got REAL weird when the man in the fur coat dropped it, just wearing a g-string. He started dancing. Right then, three wives got up to go. They got to the exit and left, only to be collared by a crew member and herded back in. Meanwhile, back on stage, it was getting weirder. The dancer was one of the crew who had been in the joint (San Quentin). He still sported gigantic 'guns' from lifting weights. The ladies of the ANA were drawn to his incredible physique and started crowding the stage. One of them got the idea of tipping. Soon, fives, tens, and even a hundred or two, were all put in that g-string. Sure enough, one of the women boldly pulled it down, letting his twelve inch friend out. All of the women, including the three who had tried to escape, all gasped.
At the high point of his dance, the women were crowded at the foot of the stage closest to him. His huge dark paw started the dreaded up and down stroke. To the delight of his crew, watching and hoping for some women as volunteers, the women all closed eyes and opened mouths like ravenous hungry young fledglings. When it happened and his huge cock popped, the spray reached the front row and second row of women. At least a dozen of them got a mouthful. Every one of them licked lips and noisily swallowed his offering.
Devon took the stage. He said: "Let's hear it for Russell, ladies!" [Wild applause] He continued: "You know girls; we are an entertainment company out west here, offering cordiality and escort services to the proper gentlemen. If any of you fine ladies would like to look into getting some part-time exciting work on the side, we have a recruiter in the back that can sign you up. We know that some of you wouldn't want to upset your husbands and won't sign up. That's cool...no really. I am sure that when he slams you at home, he packs the same kind of meat that Russell does, so why run around?"
Before he had finished his speech, the women were fighting to get in line. Of the 23 women there, 21 signed up. Nine of them were not foxes and were only fit to be 'thrown to the troops', the lowly street associates and soldiers who would screw anything that could walk. The other dozen women were fine and would do great. They got their ten prize bitches, and more...chocolate CHIPpendales, huh? It didn't sound so silly after all.
Next stop was outfitting the women. Short tight skirts, high platform shoes with Lucite straps (clear) and Lucite soles. They were see-thru top and bottom. Most guys didn't care, but some dudes went crazy seeing a gorgeous white chick with great legs and beautiful feet with see-thru soles. Blouses had to accommodate some really busty ladies, though some were real fine ladies with modest busts. Anyway, most didn't wear bras, or if they did, there were no fronts to them, so that either way, the rough cotton blouses would make the nipples angry and pucker, then pop, into erect thumb-sized knobs.
Devon looked at the line of babes, and then he kissed Artemis on the cheek so hard he almost removed his tattoo. He wasn't a 'home boy' but, man, that plan worked! They talked the women into giving letters to their wimpy husbands, many of the letters pre-written by gang members or affiliates, so they just had to sign them. Of the original dozen, they lost only one. They now had a single one more than the required ten fine ladies; they herded them onto a chartered bus for the long trip to the big city on the Hudson.
On the long interstate run, the women were given numbers to keep with them. As their number was called, they got some quality time with Russell, their old friend from the stage. He had a tough job, but SOMEONE had to do it.
He had an aisle seat, but they had removed the center seat next to him, and had pushed the chair arms back against the seatback. So, as he sat with his 12 inch pride outstanding, the fine white bitches would come up. A crew member would unceremoniously strip off their skirt, folding it neatly. The beautiful white wife of some accountant would swing a leg over and settle herself down onto the foot long pole. As she gasped for air as it slowly skewered her insides, its rough cut ending scraped the tender sensitive vaginal walls of the woman. They always moaned in pain, and then pleasure. They would slowly go up and down, easing themselves down until the full footlong length was accommodated. Finally, a rhythm would be established. A climax would be achieved either by the woman's efforts, or the occasional road hazard, forcing a huge jounce to the bus and a squeal from the grateful accountant's wife. Either way, Russell would grab their fine white behind with a big black set of paws. Then he would jet his very potent African seed into their tight, occasionally very fertile, white vaginas, filling their valuable hungry wombs with the very seed of life.
By the end of the trip, he had done a heavy number on every one of these gorgeous women, with some of them having had their fertile wombs bathed in potent black babybatter several times and for several hours at a time. Unknown to the crew on the bus or those foxy women, six of the eleven recruits were now pregnant with black babies even before they arrived in New York. It was the ultimate joke on the New York street gangs that their 'piece offering' arrived, on time and as ordered, but with dates in the delivery room already necessary.
The handsome chartered Greyhound-type bus went down Park Avenue, all the way, and turned, entering the realm of the east group. Off loading the eleven fine bitches, there were a lot of high-fives and gang shakes that went around. The crew chief called the port of Long Beach, releasing the container, breaking the seal so delivery could be made. The westies had some of the finest products ever put out by the Northern Alliance of Afghanistan, our allies over there and occasional owners of the poppy fields when the Taliban didn't have them.
The bus had pulled into this old, gang owned and run, warehouse. They all got out and lined up for inspection. Rufus, Roosevelt, and Theo looked over the new line of ho's. They were looking good. The westies worked on them, schooling-wise, during the long trip East. By the time they arrived, the ladies were well versed in dressing, talking, and acting like pros. The idea of doing hung studs, only black, turned on these volunteers.
Rufus called out for number one to come forward. They were to say their background, and then they would be given a new name and background, be told their duties on the streets of New York. First up was Heather.
Heather: "My husband is a tiny dicked white accountant. We had a 3 bedroom home; I had three children, two white wimpy small cocked boys and a white daughter who preferred little Debbie to Little Richard. I loved her but she became more of a balloon than a babe."
Rufus: "Come here, Heather." [She walked closer] [he approvingly ran his hands up and down her body, feeling her angry nipples cutting thru the thin, cheap blouse, her solid-from-healthclub-membership behind, and those shapely legs, unnecessarily accentuated by fishnet stockings. ] "Your new name will be 'Bitch number one' or just plain 'Bitch'. You have a fantastic figure, so you will be turning tricks in Manhattan, from that hotel on the park. No gangster 'toos for you. We will ask for $1,000/night for you, and get it. You will be seeing some rich dudes, let me tell you. And if we can embarrass a politician with some DVD disk of his visit to you, well we are talking BIG money! Now, you go girl!"
