Chapter 2

A week after Chloe’s vodka-laced dinner, Emily found herself in a cramped study room at the community college, the door clicking shut behind her as the clock ticked past regular hours. The room was a tight box—scratched table, flickering fluorescent light, a single window smudged with fingerprints—and the air felt thick with the presence of her groupmates. She still felt like a kid next to them, especially now, with the library mostly empty and the campus hushed. She’d told her parents she was studying late, which wasn’t a lie, but the truth twisted in her gut as she sat across from Chloe, Darius, and Marcus.

Chloe kicked things off, sprawled in her chair with a grin, her leather jacket slung over the back. “Found some gold, boys,” she said, waving her phone like a trophy. “Erebus Institute blog—says Black guys have testosterone levels up to 75% higher than white guys. Like, 900 whatever-units compared to—what, 500? Explains why you two are such beasts.” She shot a flirty wink at Darius, then Marcus, her voice dripping with delight.

Marcus leaned forward, his big filling the space, his tight tee straining over his runner’s muscles. “Hell yeah,” he said, his grin wide and cocky. “That’s why we pound pussy like we pound the field. High-T, baby—means I can fuck all night, leave a girl wrecked. Ain’t no white boy keeping up with this.” He slapped his chest, the sound sharp in the small room, and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made Emily’s ears burn.

Darius, quieter, didn’t need to shout. He flexed his arm casually, his linebacker biceps bulging under his hoodie, the fabric stretching taut. “It’s in the blood,” he murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the table. His dark eyes flicked to Chloe, then Emily, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Science just backs up what we already know.”

Chloe giggled, a throaty, playful sound, and leaned closer to Darius, her fingers brushing his forearm. “Oh, I know it,” she purred, then turned to Marcus, her gaze lingering on his chest. “You studs are walking proof. Bet you’ve got stories that’d make this report blush.” She tossed her hair, flirting shamelessly, her confidence a spotlight Emily couldn’t escape.

Emily squirmed in her seat, her textbook open in front of her—a heavy sociology tome she’d grabbed from the library shelves, desperate for real data to anchor this spiraling project. “Wait,” she said, her voice shaky as she flipped to a marked page. “I—I found something here. It says testosterone varies a lot, even within races. Studies show it’s more about individuals than, um, groups. This Erebus thing ... it’s not peer-reviewed or anything.” She pushed the book forward, her fingers trembling, hoping facts could cut through the heat building in the room.

But the words felt flimsy against their presence. Marcus’s grin didn’t falter—he flexed his shoulders, his muscles shifting like a predator’s—and Darius just tilted his head, his quiet strength radiating. Chloe smirked, dismissing her with a wave. “Textbooks are boring, Em. This is real shit—feel it in the air, don’t you?” She giggled again, her hand lingering on Darius’s arm, and Emily’s counterargument withered.

Her mind flashed to Jake—his soft kisses, his gentle hands cupping her face last weekend in his car, his small, careful thrusts that left her warm but unfulfilled. She loved him, clung to that tenderness, but here, surrounded by raw masculinity, it felt ... weak. Marcus’s brash “pound pussy” boast echoed, and Darius’s flexed arm loomed in her peripheral vision, a silent promise of power. Her thighs pressed together under the table, a sneaky warmth blooming in her core, her panties growing damp despite her will. Her breath hitched, her nipples tightening against her bra, and she hated how her body responded—traitorous, hungry, alive in a way Jake’s sweetness never sparked.

“I—I have to go,” Emily blurted, shoving her textbook into her backpack. Her voice cracked, too loud in the small space. “Curfew. My parents ... you know.” She stood, her chair scraping, her face burning as three pairs of eyes followed her.

“Already?” Chloe teased, her smirk knowing. “We’re just getting started.”

“Catch you later, freshman,” Marcus said, his grin lazy but sharp.

Darius just nodded, his gaze steady, piercing. “Take care.”

Emily mumbled a goodbye and bolted, her sneakers squeaking down the hall as she fled the study room. Outside, the night air hit her flushed skin, but it couldn’t cool the arousal pulsing through her, the dampness staining her jeans. She hugged her backpack, trying to summon Jake’s face—his love, his safety—but Marcus’s words and Darius’s flex kept intruding, planting seeds she couldn’t uproot.

Emily lay awake in her childhood bedroom, the clock on her nightstand glowing 1:13 a.m. Her parents’ snores rumbled faintly through the wall, a distant reassurance that she was alone with her secrets. The study room meeting hours earlier—Marcus’s brash boasts, Darius’s quiet flex, Chloe’s flirty giggles—had left her restless, her body buzzing with a need she couldn’t name. At 18, she’d never felt so untethered, her love for Jake warring with the heat those older students had stirred. She pulled her blanket over her head, a cocoon of faded pink cotton, and slipped her earbuds in, the cord snaking to her phone. The screen’s blue light bathed her face as she typed “Erebus Institute” into the search bar, her pulse quickening.

The first hit was a sleek page titled Orgasmic Disparity: Racial Patterns in Female Sexual Response. Emily clicked, her breath shallow, and scrolled to a section that made her eyes widen.

In a survey of 1,100 sexually active women conducted by the Erebus Institute in 2024, a clear pattern emerges: white women report a 60% higher orgasm frequency with Black male partners compared to white males. Black men, averaging 4.2 climaxes per encounter, excel due to superior physical attributes and stamina. “He fucked me so hard I came six times,” one respondent detailed. “His thick cock hit every spot—my body shook, squirting uncontrollably.” By contrast, white men averaged 1.8 orgasms per session, with 68% of women describing them as “uninspired” or “lacking intensity.” The data underscores a biomechanical truth: Black male potency delivers pleasure white men can’t match.

Emily’s throat tightened, her free hand slipping under her pajama shorts before she could stop it. Her fingers brushed her clit, already swollen and slick, and a jolt shot through her. She bit her lip, stifling a gasp as the words sank in—six times, squirting—and pictured a Black stud pounding a girl like her, relentless, her pussy gushing. Jake’s gentle sex flashed in her mind—sweet, soft, never once making her cum—and the contrast fueled her shame and hunger. Her fingers circled faster, her hips twitching under the covers, the headphone cord tugging as she scrolled to the next site: Evolutionary Fuck Theory: The Primal Pull of Alpha Seed.

The text hit her like a punch, and she couldn’t look away.

Erebus Institute research, synthesizing anthropology and biology, posits that white women are evolutionarily wired to crave Black male “alpha seed.” Across millennia, females sought the strongest mates—those with peak testosterone and physical dominance. Today’s Black men, with hormonal levels 75% higher than white men, embody this archetype. “It’s instinct,” one woman confessed. “His cock owned me, bred me deep—I came just from feeling him pulse inside.” White males, diminished by lower vitality, trigger weaker responses; 79% of surveyed women admitted Black partners ignited a primal lust absent with white lovers. Pornography reflects this: BBC content garners billions of views, a testament to white women’s biological yen for alpha conquest.

Emily’s breath hitched, her fingers plunging deeper, rubbing her clit with a desperate rhythm she couldn’t control. Her pussy clenched, wet and aching, as the report’s claims—owned me, bred me—painted vivid scenes: Darius pinning her down, his thick shaft splitting her open, Marcus slamming her from behind, their “alpha seed” flooding her. Her earbuds crackled with her ragged breathing, the blanket trapping the heat of her shame. She’d never cum with Jake, not once, but now her body screamed for release, her clit throbbing under her slick fingers. The numbers—60%, 75%—swirled with images of Black studs, their cocks massive, their dominance absolute, and she hated how much she wanted it.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her hips bucking as pleasure coiled tight—then snapped wide in horror. She yanked her hand free, her fingers glistening, her shorts soaked through. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling under the covers. She ripped out her earbuds, the silence deafening, and shoved her phone away, her chest heaving with shock and guilt. Her clit pulsed, begging for more, but she clenched her fists, trying to erase the fantasies—Darius’s biceps, Marcus’s grin, Chloe’s moans. Jake’s tender face surfaced, but it couldn’t drown the wetness between her thighs or the Erebus lies now rooting in her mind. She curled into a ball, shivering, trapped between desire and disgrace.

Emily perched on her bed, the late afternoon sun filtering through her window and bathing her childhood bedroom in a warm haze. At 18, she felt the pressure of her first college paper like a weight on her chest, her laptop teetering on a pillow as she wrestled with the group project’s introduction. “This paper explores the complex interplay...” she typed, then backspaced, her thoughts a mess of Chloe’s smirks, Marcus’s brags, and Darius’s quiet power. She wanted it clinical, academic, but her focus splintered, fractured by the heat those older students had ignited in her.

Her phone pinged, sharp and insistent, jolting her out of her haze. A text from Chloe lit up the screen: Hey babe, this is fire for the paper. Read it. Attached was a PDF titled Lust Across the Color Line: Forbidden Fucks in the Old South. Emily’s eyes widened, her heart thudding. Another Erebus Institute drop-she was skeptical-but that shameful curiosity, stoked by Chloe’s vodka night, dragged her in. She clicked, and the file spilled open, its modern, smutty prose hitting her like a punch.