Chapter 1

Emily Harper sat rigid in her chair, her fingers twisting the edge of her notebook as the classroom buzzed with the low hum of restless community college students. At 18, she was still finding her footing in her first semester, her small frame dwarfed by the worn desk in the African-American studies class.

The room smelled faintly of chalk and stale coffee, and sunlight slanted through the blinds, catching motes of dust in the air. She glanced nervously at Jake’s empty seat—he’d texted her he’d be late, stuck in traffic—and wished he were there to steady her racing heart. They’d been dating for two years, and his warm hazel eyes and gentle hands felt like home.

Up front, Professor Lillian Voss paced with a click of her stilettos, her sharp cheekbones and sleek auburn bob making her look more like a runway model than an academic. She was gorgeous, Emily couldn’t deny that—mid-thirties, with a figure hugged tight by a tailored blazer and pencil skirt—but her voice carried a haughty edge that made Emily shrink.

“Your final project,” Professor Voss announced, her tone dripping with superiority, “is a group paper on an aspect of the Black experience in America. I’ve assigned your teams. No swaps, no complaints.” Her lips curled into a faint, condescending smirk as she tapped her clipboard.

Emily’s stomach knotted as Voss read the names. “Emily Harper, Chloe Bennett, Darius Jackson, Marcus Tate—group four.” Her breath hitched. She knew those names, or at least their reputations, and the weight of them landed like stones in her gut.

Across the room, Darius lounged in his seat, all 21 years of him radiating quiet power. He was a junior, a linebacker on the football team, his dark skin stretched taut over a frame that seemed carved from granite—6’4”, broad shoulders, biceps bulging even under his loose hoodie. His shaved head gleamed under the fluorescents, and his dark eyes flicked toward her with a lazy curiosity that made her cheeks burn.

Next to him, Marcus, 22 and a senior, sprawled with a cocky grin, his leaner but still muscular 6’2” build coiled with energy. His running back physique screamed speed and strength, and the tight T-shirt he wore did little to hide the ripple of his abs. Both of them were massive, intimidating, their presence filling the room in a way that made Emily feel small and fragile.

Then there was Chloe. At 20, the sophomore sat a row ahead, her sultry green eyes already darting toward Darius and Marcus with a knowing glint. She twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger, her full lips parting in a sly smile as she leaned forward, whispering something to Marcus that made him chuckle low. Emily had heard the rumors—whispers around campus about Chloe’s obsession with Black guys, how she bragged about their “skills” in hushed, giggling tones. Seeing her now, openly flirting with a subtle brush of her hand against Darius’s arm, Emily’s throat tightened. She didn’t know what to make of it, but the heat in Chloe’s gaze sent a shiver down her spine.

Professor Voss clapped her hands, snapping Emily out of her spiraling thoughts. “Meet your groups now. Plan your first steps. I expect brilliance—or at least competence.” Her snooty dismissal hung in the air as she turned to her desk, leaving the class to shuffle into motion.

Emily swallowed hard, her palms sweaty as she gathered her courage. She stood, smoothing her jeans and tugging her blouse straight, and edged toward her groupmates. They’d already clustered near the back, Chloe perched on a desk like she owned it, her legs crossed provocatively, while Darius and Marcus loomed over her, their deep voices rumbling in easy conversation. Emily felt like a mouse creeping toward lions.

“Um, hi,” she said, her voice smaller than she’d meant it to be. Three pairs of eyes swung to her, and she froze under their weight. Darius’s stare was calm, assessing, while Marcus’s grin widened, all teeth and mischief.

Chloe tilted her head, her smile sharpening like she’d spotted fresh prey. “Hey, cutie,” Chloe purred, hopping off the desk. “You’re Emily, right? Fresh meat.” She laughed, a throaty sound, and Emily’s face flushed.

“Yeah,” Emily managed, clutching her notebook tighter. “So, uh, the project...”

“Gonna be fun,” Marcus cut in, his voice a playful growl. He flexed his shoulders, and Emily couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles shifted under his shirt. “We got this, newbie.”

Darius nodded, his tone smoother, deeper. “We’ll figure it out. What’s your vibe, Emily?”

She blinked, thrown by the question. “I—I just want it to be good. Academic, you know?” Her eyes darted between them, landing on Chloe, who was already smirking at Darius like they shared a secret.

“Academic’s boring,” Chloe said, stepping closer. “Let’s make it juicy. Something real.” Her fingers grazed Marcus’s arm as she spoke, and Emily’s stomach flipped. She didn’t know what “juicy” meant, but the way Chloe said it—combined with the sheer size of Darius and Marcus towering over her—made her feel out of her depth.

“How about the library?” Emily blurted, desperate to anchor herself. “Tonight, maybe? To start planning?”

“Library works,” Darius agreed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. “Seven?”

“Seven’s good,” Marcus added, winking at her. “Don’t be late, freshman.”

“I won’t,” Emily said quickly, her heart thudding. Chloe just grinned, her eyes glinting with something Emily couldn’t—or didn’t want to—name.

As the group dispersed, Emily sank back into her chair, her mind a whirl. She was intimidated, no question—Darius and Marcus were giants, their physicality overwhelming, and Chloe’s flirty confidence screamed trouble. She thought of Jake, his sweet smile and the way he’d held her last night, their sex tender but quiet, leaving her warm but unfulfilled. She loved him, adored him, but now, facing this group, a tiny, shameful part of her wondered what she’d gotten herself into—and what they might drag her toward.

Emily stepped out into the cool evening air, the screen door creaking shut behind her as she left her parents’ house. The sky was bruising purple above the suburban street, and the faint hum of crickets mingled with the rustle of her sneakers on the pavement. She tugged her jacket tighter around her 18-year-old frame, her blonde hair swaying in the breeze, and pressed her phone to her ear. Jake’s voice crackled through, warm and steady, grounding her as she started the short walk to the library.

“Hey, baby,” Jake said, his tone soft like it always was when they talked after dinner. “You heading out already?”

“Yeah,” Emily replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the knot in her stomach. “I love you, you know that? Just needed to hear you before I go deal with this.”

“Love you too, Em,” Jake said, and she could picture his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, his sandy hair mussed from lounging at home. “What’s got you so wound up? The project?”

She sighed, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Yeah. My group—they’re all older than me. Chloe’s 20, Darius is 21, Marcus is 22. I’m just ... I don’t know, nervous. They’re so confident, and I’m the freshman who barely knows what’s going on.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jake reassured her, his voice a soothing balm. “You’re smart as hell, Em. They’re lucky to have you. Just be yourself—they’ll see how awesome you are.”

Emily’s chest warmed at his words, her love for him swelling. Their sex flashed through her mind—those few tender times in his car or her room when her parents were out, his gentle hands and sweet kisses. She’d never climaxed, not once, but the closeness, the way he whispered her name, made her feel cherished. “Thanks, Jake,” she murmured. “I just hope I don’t mess this up.”

“You won’t,” he said firmly. “Call me after, okay? Tell me how it goes.”

“Promise,” she said, spotting the library’s squat brick facade ahead. “I’m here—gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you too. Knock ‘em dead,” Jake teased, and she hung up with a soft laugh, pocketing her phone as she pushed through the glass doors.

Inside, the library smelled of old paper and faint mildew, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the rows of shelves. Emily’s sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as she scanned the room, her pulse quickening. In the far corner, at a round table tucked behind a stack of dusty encyclopedias, she saw them—her group. Darius slouched in a chair, his massive 6’4” frame dwarfing it, his hoodie stretched over his linebacker muscles. Marcus leaned back beside him, his 6’2” running back’s build taut under a tight tee, his grin already flashing. Chloe perched on the table’s edge, her legs dangling, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder as she laughed at something Marcus said. They looked older, cooler, untouchable—and Emily felt like a kid crashing their party.

She swallowed her nerves and approached, clutching her backpack strap. “Hey,” she said, her voice a little too high. “Sorry if I’m late.”

“You’re good, freshman,” Marcus said, his eyes glinting with mischief as he kicked out a chair for her. “Sit.”

Darius nodded, his deep voice rumbling. “Right on time.”

Chloe slid off the table, her smile sharp and knowing as she eyed Emily. “Hey, cutie. Ready to dive in?”

Emily sat, her knees jittering under the table. “Yeah, uh, so ... the project. What’s our topic?”

Chloe didn’t hesitate, her voice silky and bold. “Sexuality between Black men and white women. It’s perfect—raw, real, tons to dig into.”

Emily’s stomach lurched. She’d half-expected something like this from Chloe—those whispers about her interracial hookups echoed in Emily’s mind—but hearing it out loud made her skin prickle. She glanced at Darius and Marcus, intimidated by their size, their easy confidence. Darius’s biceps flexed as he shifted, and Marcus’s grin widened, both of them nodding quick agreement.

“Sounds dope,” Marcus said, leaning forward. “Lots of angles there.”

“Yeah,” Darius added, his tone cool but firm. “It’s a go.”

Emily’s mouth went dry. She wanted to object—something safer, less charged, like civil rights or music—but their age and presence pinned her tongue. She didn’t want to look stupid, not in front of these older students who seemed so sure of themselves. “I, um,” she started, her voice wavering, “I just think maybe we should keep it ... clinical? Like, academic, not ... personal?”

Chloe’s laugh was low, almost a purr. “Oh, don’t worry, Em. We’ll keep it clinical—plenty of well-researched facts to back it up.” She shot a sidelong glance at Darius and Marcus, her lips twitching. “Right, boys?”

Marcus chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, and Darius smirked, his eyes flicking to Emily with a glint she couldn’t read. “Plenty,” Marcus said, stretching his arms so his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of chiseled abs. “We got you.”

Emily forced a nod, her cheeks burning. She didn’t know what “facts” they meant, but Chloe’s sly tone and the guys’ amusement set her on edge. She thought of Jake, his reassuring words still warm in her ears, and clung to them like a lifeline. She’d get through this—somehow.

Emily flopped onto her twin bed, the familiar creak of the springs a small comfort after the library meeting. Her childhood bedroom felt like a cocoon—faded pink walls plastered with old band posters, a stuffed bear perched on the shelf above her desk—but tonight, it couldn’t shield her from the unease gnawing at her. The library discussion replayed in her head: Chloe’s bold suggestion, Darius and Marcus’s easy agreement, those chuckles that hinted at something she didn’t grasp. She was 18, a freshman out of her depth, and she needed facts—solid, academic ground to stand on.

She pulled her laptop onto her crossed legs, the glow of the screen casting shadows across her face. Living with her parents meant no dorm Wi-Fi, just the slow family router, but it was enough. She typed “Black experience sexuality” into Google, expecting dry sociology papers. Instead, the third result caught her eye: The Global Phallic Spectrum: A Comparative Study of Male Anatomy Across Races. The title alone made her hesitate, but the tagline—”Erebus Institute, 2023”—sounded official.

She clicked, her heart thudding a little faster. The page loaded with a sleek layout—charts, graphs, and a wall of text that hit her like a slap. Her eyes widened as she skimmed the introduction, then froze on a section halfway down. She couldn’t look away.

Our findings, derived from a robust sample of 1,200 self-reported measurements and 300 clinical observations, reveal stark disparities in penile dimensions across racial lines. Black males exhibit an average erect length of 7.8 inches and a girth of 6.2 inches, figures that dwarf the white male averages of 4.4 inches in length and 3.8 inches in girth. These measurements, corroborated by secondary surveys of female partners, suggest a profound physical advantage in sexual contexts. One respondent noted, “His cock was so thick, it stretched me wider than I thought possible—every thrust hit places I didn’t know existed.”