Chapter 2

The rain hadn’t let up, falling in heavy sheets that blurred the city into a haze of wet shadows. Roni stood outside 1843 Carver Street, her combat boots soaked, her hoodie clinging to her slim frame as she stared up at the brick walk-up. Evening had deepened into a damp, intimate dark, the streetlights casting a faint glow over the chipped paint of Latrell’s building.

Her heart thudded, a mix of defiance and nerves—why was she here? She didn’t have an answer, but her legs carried her up the creaking stairs to Apartment 4B. She knocked, her ponytail dripping, her green eyes sharp but uncertain.

Latrell opened the door, six-foot-five and radiating heat, his presence filling the frame. He wore a sleeveless black tank that hugged his enhanced physique, every muscle carved and gleaming under the low light—biceps like steel, chest broad enough to block the world. His dark skin caught the glow of a single lamp inside, and his eyes, deep and knowing, locked onto her. “You made it,” he said, a grin tugging his lips. “Come in.”

Roni stepped past him, her boots squeaking on the hardwood, the apartment’s sparse masculinity closing around her—a leather couch, a coffee table, a faint scent of cedar and whiskey. Rain tapped the windows, sealing them in. Latrell gestured to the couch, his arm flexing subtly. “Sit. Relax.”

She sank onto the cushions, clutching her hoodie’s hem, her jeans loose but not enough to hide the curve of her hips. Latrell sat beside her—not crowding, not yet at least, but close enough she felt his warmth, his bulk a quiet threat. The couch creaked under him, and she braced herself, her full lips tight, ready for whatever he’d throw.”You don’t even know who the real enemy is, do you, Roni?” Latrell said, leaning back, his voice low, eyes never leaving her.

Her jaw clenched, fire sparking. “It’s men. All men. Toxic masculinity—weak, entitled, thinking the world’s theirs just because they’ve got a dick.” Her words cut, years of rallies behind them, but her pulse quickened under his gaze.

Latrell smirked, shifting slightly closer, his tank straining over his pecs. “You’re half-right. But it’s white men who are weak, entitled. Scared little boys, always grabbing ‘cause they’re empty inside. Black men? We’re different. Me?” He spread his arms, muscles rippling. “Our arrogance is earned. I can seduce any woman I want—fuck her ‘til she forgets her own name. And they love it.”

Roni’s eyes flashed, her feminist armor up. “That’s just patriarchy with a different face. You’re still dominating, still using your body to take. That’s not earning—it’s coercion, rooted in systemic privilege.” Her voice was steady, quoting theory she’d lived by, but her breath hitched, his scent—raw, masculine—clouding her focus.

He chuckled, sliding closer, his thigh brushing the couch an inch from hers. “Coercion? Nah. I knew this trust fund kid—white boy, blond, soft, thought he owned the world. His girl was bored, restless. I took her to a motel one night, fucked her ‘til she screamed my name, left him cryin’ in his penthouse. She didn’t go back.” His eyes bored into her, unyielding. “That’s not coercion, Roni. That’s power—ours.”

Her cheeks flushed, a vivid crimson, as the image hit—Latrell, relentless, claiming. She knew he was telling the truth; she’d seen women melt around him. Her pussy twitched, a heat she tried to ignore. “That’s just a story,” she countered, voice thinner. “One conquest doesn’t prove anything. It’s still male entitlement, exploiting desire.”

Latrell leaned in, his arm resting on the couch’s back, boxing her subtly against its arm. “Entitlement’s their game, not ours. White men need laws, money, lies to hold power. Us? We don’t. Last week, this lawyer chick—white, married, all proper—said no at first. But I got her alone, and she was beggin’ by midnight, comin’ so hard she forgot her vows. That’s what we do—make ‘em crave us.” His voice dropped, teasing. “Look at you, Roni. Face red, breathin’ fast. You’re squirming. Your body’s tellin’ me you feel it too.”

She squirmed indeed, her thighs pressing together, trying to lean away but trapped by the couch’s arm. Her eyes darted to his chest, his abs, then—God help her—his crotch. The bulge there was massive, obscene, straining his jeans like a promise. Her eyes widened, a gasp catching in her throat before she forced her gaze up, but it was too late. That image—huge, undeniable—burned into her, her pussy clenching, nipples stiffening against her tank top. “You’re projecting,” she stammered, clinging to theory. “Biology isn’t destiny. This is about control, not attraction. You’re still perpetuating oppression.”

Latrell’s grin widened, predatory, as he slid closer, his knee grazing hers. “Oppression’s their game, not ours. White men control ‘cause they’re weak—fragile egos breaking under pressure. Us? We’re strength, real power. You’re here, Roni, feeling it—your body’s screaming you want what we got. That’s not oppression; that’s liberation.” His eyes traced her trembling lips, her flushed neck.

Her resolve wavered, her voice softer. “It’s still patriarchy ... just twisted to sound noble.” But her eyes kept slipping to his arms, his chest, that bulge she couldn’t unsee, her body heating like a furnace, slickness pooling in her jeans.

He closed the gap, his face inches from hers, his breath warm. “Twisting? I’m fixin’ it. White men hold you back with their insecurity. Black men like us? We give you what you crave—set you free. You’re fighting it, Roni, but you’re losing. Your body knows we’re right.” His hand brushed her arm, a spark that jolted her.

“I ... I don’t...” she whispered, eyes wide, trapped between arousal and defiance, her pussy throbbing, her whole body leaning toward him despite her mind’s scream to stop.

Latrell didn’t wait. He surged forward, his lips crashing onto hers, aggressive, claiming, his hand cupping her neck. Roni froze for a heartbeat—then melted, kissing him back with a hunger that shocked her, her hands grabbing his shoulders, nails digging into his muscle. Her moan vibrated against his mouth, eager, desperate, her body finally shouting what her words wouldn’t.

The kiss broke like a dam bursting, Latrell’s lips leaving Roni’s with a wet heat that left her gasping, her green eyes wide and dazed. Her hands still clutched his shoulders, nails biting into the muscle beneath his sleeveless tank, her slim frame trembling against the couch.

Rain drummed the windows of his sparse apartment, sealing them in a cocoon of dark intimacy, the air thick with cedar, whiskey, and the raw scent of him. Latrell’s massive frame loomed, his dark skin gleaming under the single lamp, his eyes pinning her with a hunger that made her pussy clench. She tried to speak, to summon her firebrand rage, but her voice caught, her body betraying her with a need she couldn’t name.

“You’re still fighting it, Roni,” Latrell said, his voice a low growl, one hand sliding to her jaw, thumb brushing her full lips. “Saying one thing, but your body’s screaming another. White men got you twisted, but we’re different. You feel it, don’t you?”

Roni’s breath hitched, her feminist armor cracking. “It’s ... it’s just physical,” she stammered, leaning back against the couch’s arm, trapped but not pulling away. “Doesn’t mean you’re right.” Her words were weak, her thighs pressing together, heat pooling in her jeans as his scent flooded her senses. She couldn’t stop staring—his biceps flexing, his chest straining the tank, and that bulge, massive and obscene, haunting her since she’d glimpsed it.

He chuckled, sliding closer, his knee grazing hers, his bulk overwhelming. “Physical? That’s power, girl. White men fake it—weak, whining. Us? Our power’s real.” His hand dropped to her thigh, firm but not forceful, sending a jolt through her. “You’re wet right now, ain’t you? Can’t lie to me.”

Her face flushed crimson, embarrassment warring with desire. “That’s not ... it doesn’t prove anything,” she whispered, but her voice shook, her pussy throbbing at his touch. She squirmed, trying to shift away, but the couch trapped her, and her eyes kept darting to his body, his strength, his confidence shredding her arguments. “It’s still control, still ... patriarchy.”

Latrell’s grin was predatory, his hand sliding higher, fingers grazing the seam of her jeans. “Patriarchy’s their game, not ours. We don’t control ‘cause we’re scared—we do it because we know what you need.” He leaned in, lips brushing her ear, voice a velvet taunt. “You wanna see real black power, don’t you, Roni?” His meaning was clear, his eyes flicking to his crotch, where the bulge strained impossibly larger.

Her breath stopped, her gaze dropping despite herself. The outline was monstrous, thick and heavy, promising something beyond anything she’d known. Her arguments dissolved, her mouth dry. She tried to speak, to counter, but all she could manage was a nod, her face burning with shame and want, her pussy slick and trembling. “I...” she mumbled, unable to look away.

“That’s right,” Latrell said, leaning back, his hands moving to his belt. “Go on, girl. Show me you’re ready.” His tone was commanding, but his eyes held a challenge, daring her to cross the line she’d sworn never to touch.

Roni’s hands shook as she reached for his zipper, her feminist ideals screaming—this is servitude, this is wrong—but her body moved on its own, driven by a hunger she couldn’t fight. She unzipped him, her fingers fumbling, and pulled down his jeans, his boxers, revealing his massive black cock.

It sprang free, thick as her wrist, veins pulsing, longer than anything she’d imagined, the head gleaming under the lamp’s glow. Her eyes widened, a gasp escaping her lips, awe and fear mixing with raw desire. “I’ve never ... never seen anything like it,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her pussy clenching so hard it ached.

Latrell’s laugh was low, triumphant. “That’s brcause you’ve never been with a man like me. White boys can’t compare—weak, small, done in minutes. This?” He gripped the base, his cock twitching in her gaze. “This is ours. Real power. Now suck it, Roni.”

Her heart pounded, memories flashing—how she’d always refused this, called it disgusting, a symbol of masculine control, feminine submission. Blowjobs were for porn, for women who bowed to men, not for her, not for a fighter like Roni Caldwell. But staring at Latrell’s cock, its size, its dominance, something shifted. It felt natural, right, like her body had been waiting for this moment, for him.

She leaned forward, her ponytail falling over one shoulder, her lips parting as she took him in, her tongue tentative at first, tasting the salt and heat of him. Her mouth stretched wide, struggling to fit even the head, but she didn’t pull back—she pushed deeper, eager, willing, a moan vibrating in her throat.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Latrell groaned, his hand tangling in her hair, not forcing but guiding, his voice thick with approval. “Knew you’d want it. Knew you’d feel it.”

Roni’s cheeks burned, embarrassment fading under a rush of instinct. She’d never done this—never wanted to—but with Latrell, it was different. Her tongue swirled, lips sliding along his length, wet and sloppy, her hands gripping his thighs for balance.

She recalled her old disgust, her rants against women who “served” men, but it felt distant, irrelevant. This wasn’t servitude; it was worship, a need to please him, to taste his power. Her pussy dripped, soaking her jeans, her nipples rock-hard against her tank top as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper, gagging slightly but not stopping.

“Look at you,” Latrell taunted, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Thought you were too good for this, huh? Now you’re suckin’ like you were born for it. That’s what we do, Roni—make you want to kneel.”

She moaned louder, the sound muffled around his cock, her eyes watering but locked on his, desperate to prove him right. Her arguments were gone, crumbled under his confidence, his size, his truth.

Roni sucked harder, lips stretched, tongue working, her hands sliding to cup his heavy balls, marveling at their weight. She’d never felt so alive, so consumed, every feminist lecture drowned by the pulse of him in her mouth, the slick heat between her legs screaming for more.

“You’re ours now,” Latrell said, voice rough, his hips shifting to meet her rhythm. “No goin’ back, girl. You taste it, don’t you? Real power.”

Roni could only nod, her mouth full, her body trembling with submission. She sucked eagerly, lost in him, her old self slipping away with every wet slide of her lips, every throb of his massive black cock claiming her completely.

Her lips stretched wide around Latrell’s massive black cock, the heat and weight of him filling her mouth, her senses drowning in his musk and power. Her combat boots dangled off the couch’s edge, her jeans soaked with her own slickness, her tank top clinging to her trembling frame. The rain outside beat a steady rhythm, locking them in the dim, cedar-scented haze of his apartment. She bobbed her head, eager but clumsy, her ponytail swaying, her green eyes watering as she tried to take more.

Latrell’s fingers wove into her hair, strong and deliberate, gripping her ponytail to control her pace. “Slow down, girl,” he murmured, voice thick with command. “Feel it. Let it fill you.” He tugged gently, guiding her deeper, his cock sliding past her lips, hitting the back of her throat. Roni choked, a muffled gag escaping, her hands clutching his thighs for balance, nails digging into his muscle. Her eyes flicked up, meeting his—dark, approving, urging her on—and a shock of need surged through her, her pussy clenching so hard she moaned around him.

“Relax your throat,” Latrell coached, his tone firm but warm, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Breathe through it. You got this.” Another tug, harder now, pushed her down, his cock sinking deeper, stretching her mouth to its limit. She gagged again, spit dribbling, but his words anchored her, and she tried, loosening her throat, desperate to please him. The realization hit her like a wave—she wanted this, more than anything, to satisfy him, to make this Black God groan for her. Her feminist past screamed—servitude, shame—but it was drowned by a pride she’d never known, a need to be his.

“Good girl,” Latrell said, his voice a low growl, and those words lit her up, perfect, right, validating in a way nothing else ever had. “Look at you, taking it so well.” He pulled her hair, setting a faster rhythm, his cock sliding in and out, wet and heavy, her lips straining but eager.

She groaned, the sound vibrating around him, her tongue swirling, sloppy and fervent. Every gag, every choke was a battle she fought to win, her pussy pulsing with need, nipples aching against her tank top. His praise fueled her, each good girl a spark that made her push harder, deeper.

“You’re learning fast,” Latrell said, his hips shifting to meet her, his grip relentless. “Knew you’d be a natural, Roni. Keep going—make me feel it.” Her eyes watered, locked on his, her throat opening under his guidance, taking him deeper than she thought possible.

She gagged hard, spit coating her chin, but pride flushed through her when he groaned, deep and raw. “Fuck, that’s it,” he said, his voice rough with pleasure. “You’re doing so good for me.” Her heart swelled, her body alive with purpose—she was pleasing him, satisfying him, and it felt like everything.

Latrell’s pace quickened, his fingers pulling her hair taut, driving his cock to the hilt. “Deep now,” he ordered, voice thick. “All the way, girl.” Roni whimpered, her throat burning, but she obeyed, pushing past the gag reflex, her nose brushing his pelvis as she deep-throated him. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel—his size, his power, her need to be his.

He held her there, a moment of total control, then growled, “Here it comes.” His cock pulsed, and he came, hot and thick, flooding her mouth. She struggled to swallow, choking as cum spilled past her lips, dribbling down her chin, her groans muffled by the sheer volume. Latrell eased his grip, letting her pull back, gasping, her chest heaving.

She wiped her chin with a trembling hand, cum smearing her fingers, her face flushed with awe and exertion. Her eyes locked on his cock—still hard, impossibly, glistening with her spit and his release. “You’re ... you’re not soft,” she whispered, voice raw, her pussy throbbing so fiercely she squirmed, a desperate ache spreading through her.

“That’s how black men are,” Latrell said, smirking, his hand cupping her cheek, thumb brushing her swollen lips. “Built different, Roni. Ready for you again already.” His words hit like a drug, her groans louder, her body screaming for more. He stood, towering over her, and yanked her tank top off, exposing her flushed skin, her hard nipples. Her jeans followed, ripped down with her panties, leaving her bare, vulnerable, her pussy slick and glistening.

Latrell didn’t pause. “Over the arm,” he said, voice a command, guiding her to bend over the couch’s armrest, her ass up, her hands gripping the cushions. She groaned, her pussy pulsing with need, her feminist ideals a faint echo—this was power, his power, and she craved it.

He positioned himself behind her, his massive black cock brushing her entrance, and she climaxed instantly, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as her pussy spasmed, soaking him before he’d even entered. “Fuck, girl,” Latrell laughed, gripping her hips. “You’re ready.”

He thrust in, his cock stretching her impossibly, filling her with a heat that shattered her. She screamed, another orgasm crashing through her as he pounded, relentless, his size splitting her open, every stroke a claim. “Take it,” he growled, his hands bruising her hips, his cock slamming in and out, her pussy gripping him like a vise. Roni’s world narrowed to him—his power, his praise, his black God cock remaking her with every thrust, her moans echoing in the rain-soaked dark.

Latrell’s massive black cock drove into Roni’s tight white pussy, each thrust a seismic claim that shattered her world. Bent over the arm of his couch, her combat boots scraped the floor, her bare skin flushed and slick with sweat in the dim, rain-soaked apartment. His hands gripped her hips, fingers bruising, pulling her back to meet his relentless rhythm.

The wet slap of their bodies echoed, drowning the storm outside, her moans rising into desperate cries as pleasure consumed her. His size stretched her to her limits, veins pulsing against her walls, filling her in ways she’d never imagined, her feminist ideals crumbling under the raw truth of him.

“Thought you were too good for this, huh?” Latrell taunted, his voice a low growl, one hand lifting to smack her ass—hard, a sharp sting that made her gasp. “Look at you now, takin’ it like you were made for it.” Another smack, his palm cracking against her pale flesh, leaving a red bloom.

Roni’s pussy clenched, a flood of heat surging through her. She’d never accept this from a white man—never let one hit her, control her, degrade her. Their abuse was weak, entitled, rooted in fear. But Latrell’s? It felt natural, right, his dominance a force she craved, each smack driving her higher, her body begging for more.

Her climax hit like a tidal wave, her pussy spasming around his cock, her scream tearing through the air as she bucked against the couch. “Fuck, yes!” she gasped, no longer fighting, her mind a haze of pleasure.

Latrell laughed, deep and triumphant, his thrusts never slowing, his grip tightening. “That’s it, girl,” he said, smacking her ass again, harder, the pain melting into ecstasy. “You love it, don’t you? Love this black cock ownin’ you.” She could only nod, her voice lost to moans, her pussy dripping, climaxing again as his words sank deep, undeniable.

“Latrell...” she whimpered, her hands clawing the cushions, her body shaking under his assault. Another smack, another thrust, and she came a third time, her vision blurring, her tight pussy gripping him like a vice. She’d never known pleasure like this—white men, with their fumbling, selfish attempts, had left her cold, unfulfilled. Latrell was different, his power absolute, his cock a revelation that rewrote her soul. Every feminist lecture, every rally cry faded, replaced by the truth of his dominance, the rightness of his control.