Chapter 2

The first week of classes hit me like a freight train, but biology was the one bright spot — or should I say, the one throbbing, massive distraction. I sat in the back of the lecture hall, notebook open, but my eyes kept drifting to the front row where Jamal lounged like he owned the place. His broad shoulders strained against his tight t-shirt, and every time he shifted, I imagined that legendary BBC of his stirring in his pants, just waiting to be unleashed on some eager white slut like me. God, after that locker room peek and our flirty DMs, I was obsessed. My pussy hadn’t stopped aching since; I’d rubbed myself raw every night, fantasizing about wrapping my lips around that thick black shaft, feeling it pulse on my tongue, stretching my jaw until tears streamed down my face. I was Emily, the innocent freshman no more — now I was a cock-hungry bitch in heat, craving the forbidden thrill of being ruined by big black dick.

Professor Ramirez droned on about cellular structures, but all I could think about was Jamal’s structure — the way his cock had hung heavy and veined, promising to split me wide open. I crossed my legs under the desk, squeezing my thighs to ease the persistent throb in my clit. My panties were already soaked, a constant reminder of how badly I needed it. When class ended, I gathered my things slowly, hoping he’d notice me. And he did. “Yo, Emily,” he called out, his deep voice cutting through the chatter like a command. I turned, my heart skipping, nipples pebbling instantly under my thin blouse. “You get that mitosis stuff? It’s kicking my ass.”

I laughed nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, a little. I was pre-med in high school, so...” Lies — I’d barely passed bio back home, but anything to keep talking to him. His eyes roamed over me, lingering on my chest where my bra did little to hide my excitement. “Cool. How about a study session? My place off-campus. Tonight, say 8? The group’s small — just us focused types.” My mind screamed yes, but I played it cool. “Sure, sounds good.” Inside, I was melting. A study group? Please. I knew what I wanted: to be on my knees, worshipping his BBC, letting him turn me into his personal cum dump.

The rest of the day dragged, my classes a haze of half-heard lectures and stolen moments in the bathroom stall, where I’d hike up my skirt and finger my slick pussy, whispering his name. “Jamal ... fuck, I need your big black cock...” I’d circle my clit furiously, imagining him bending me over the desk, pounding me until my legs gave out. By evening, I was a mess — showered, shaved smooth everywhere, wearing my shortest skirt and a top that plunged low enough to show the lace of my bra. Slutty? Hell yes. I wanted him to see me as the eager white girl ready to submit.