Clark and Stella were huddled over their laptops in the dimly lit college library. On account of the long nights he was pulling lately, Clark seemed paler than usual. By contrast, Stella seemed well rested, her ebony skin, flawless even in the daytime, was practically polished obsidian that night.
They were working on a history homework assignment together, using a new chatbot they had heart about, EntranceGPT. The assignment concerned the Antebellum era in the South, specifically to examine the arguments white slaveowners had used to justify their ownership of blacks. It was a morally uncomfortable assignment, especially for Stella, herself a descendant of some of those slaves.
Clark had taken the lead, brainstorming possible prompts with his classmate, then inputting them. Together, they would carefully examine the outputs. Stella was impressed by Clark's facility with the machine, even found it vaguely appealing. He was cute, she thought to himself. That is, cute for a white guy.
Her preference, of course, was for her own race. Not only because of all the bad history between blacks and whites, not to mention the comments and stares an interracial couple would inevitably suffer, but also the values. Blacks and whites just thought differently. This assignment was proving that. Blacks were physically fit but mentally inferior, her ancestors' shacklers had claimed. They needed white minds to guide them, control them. Absolute bullshit.
Besides, Stella suddenly found herself thinking as she leaned toward the computer screen, let's be honest: white guys couldn't compare downstairs. Although her eyes were looking at the chatbot's words materializing on the screen, her mind drifted. She found herself reminiscing about her ex-boyfriend, his smooth ebony skin, his rippling muscles, and his fat dick. She smirked faintly.
Meanwhile, Clark was busily typing away when he noticed something odd. The word "ass" seemed to creep into the chatbot's outputs. His cheeks flushed at the realization and he gave a sidelong glance at Stella to see if she had noticed. She was leaning forward like him, her eyes locked on the screen. He could have sworn she was smirking, but he couldn't quite tell. If she had seen the surreptitious word, she wasn't giving any clear indication of it. So, Clark continued to type.
Eventually his shoulders began to ache from being hunched over. "Take a break?" he suggested.
Stella leaned back. She wasn't tired, but she nodded. "Sure, why not?"
Her eyes were still locked onto the screen, but she wasn't really reading very closely. Her mind lingered on a particular sentence produced by the chatbot: "Black women in particular needed white men to tame their wild sexual desires, slaveowners contended."
Clark stood up and stretched. They were in an alcove in the upstairs of the library. He paced around a little to get his blood flowing. As he circled around, he noticed Stella's ample derrière pressed against the back edge of her chair. Clark stopped pacing and stared at it. Soon, his thoughts had drifted away from their homework assignment and towards the forbidden dark fruit bulging lusciously before him.
Stella was oblivious to her classmate's growing fascination with her rear end. Her mind had wandered toward another strange strange sentence in the dialogue window: "Black women had a deep desire to use their bodies to pleasure white men."
She was contemplating the sentence when, as if with a life of its own, the chatbot suddenly wrote a new message, totally unbidden. The movement in the dialogue box also caught Clark's eye.
"Black ass was meant for big white cock."
They stared blankly at the message, and then suddenly new thoughts began to form in their minds, thoughts that at first they instinctively resisted, then slowly surrendered to.
Standing behind Stella, Clark's eyes once more locked onto her fat ass pressed into the chair. He wondered what it would feel like to have that ass rubbing against his cock. Wait, what? That wasn't right.
Unconsciously, his hand began to rub his cock through his pants. Yes, it was right. Having her ass rub against his cock was very right. And not only that. His cock needed to be shoved up into that ass, way up into her poop shoot, pumping in and out.
Clark probably has a big dick, Stella found herself musing. That is, for a white guy. White guys could have big cocks. Big cocks with big balls, with lots of cum in them. But rarely, let's be real. She hadn't ever really been with a white guy, she just knew the stories. So, Clark's probably couldn't be that big -- or could it?
Her hand slithered down her groin and began to rub along the fold of her pussy. Not all black men were well endowed, she realized. Truth be told, her ex had been normal, small even. Small like a white guy. And maybe Clark was special. Maybe he was huge. Maybe he was packing a black man's dick in a white man's cock.
Stella was shaken from her reverie by another movement in the dialogue window, another output from the chatbot, directed at her: "Show him your stuff."
Without fully realizing it, Stella began to unconsciously arch her back and swivel her hips in the chair. Clark could feel his cock growing harder in his pants as he watched her ass bulge toward him.
The chatbot generated an image that riveted both their attention. It seemed to look like them. No, it definitely looked like them, there in the library, with Stella sitting on Clark's lap. His head was tilted back, his mouth open, his fingers dug into her thick hips. She was smiling wickedly.
Stella realized the image was showing her giving him a lap dance, rubbing her ass on his crotch, driving him to orgasm. Just then, something clicked inside of her. She stood up and faced Clark, pointing toward the chair. Feeling his cock straining against his pants, he did as told, sitting down in it. A moment later, she she sat down on his lap. With a sultry smile, she started to grind her hips against him, her ass pressing against his crotch.
"Yeah," she purred. "You like that black ass, don't you?"
Clark grunted a yes, his eyes fixed on the rolling and jiggling curves of her gyrating body.
A new message appeared on the screen: "Say it. Black ass was meant for white cock."
Stella furrowed her brow as if in deep concentration, and then read out loud with a monotone voice, "Black ass was meant for white cock."
Clark groaned loudly. The sound echoed out from the alcove and reverberated across the library.
* * *
The librarian thought she had heard something. Something lewd.
Darcy was alone in the library except for those two students, who had gone somewhere upstairs. Were they fooling around instead of studying? This wouldn't have been the first time a couple had made out in the library, but it never got any less annoying.
She was sitting at the collections desk and about to get up and go look for the couple when she noticed something on her computer screen. Darcy had been tinkering with a chatbot called EntranceGPT, seeing if it could help her with a boring administrative task.
"Have you ever considered being a stripper?" it had abruptly written.
The librarian was mortified, but also confused. Where on earth had this come from? She looked at her prompts. They were all about dry book lending statistics.
"You would be a great stripper," the machine wrote, again unprompted.
Darcy leaned back in her chair, startled, even a little afraid.
"You have the perfect body for it."
The librarian felt a slight tugging in the back of her head. She adjusted her glasses, then turned and looked toward a nearby window. The darkness of the night made it into a mirror, and she considered her reflection. It occurred to her that for a white woman in her mid-thirties, she really was doing alright in the looks department. She was thin, her tummy practically washboard flat. Her hips, while not ample, were by no means small, either. And her legs will long and thin, a bit beanstalky perhaps, but appealing. The problem was her breasts, which had always left something to be desired. Droopy C cups: gravity had always been unkind to them, even when she was a teenager.
She looked back at the screen to discover an image of herself on a stage in a night club. One of her legs was wrapped around a pole, and her big saggy tits were flopping about. There were men seated all around her, and not just any men. Black men.
She would never admit it in polite company, especially not on a university campus, what with all the fanatical political correctness, but Darcy was not especially fond of blacks. Sure, some of them had availed themselves of the opportunities America provided them, but for the most part they were a lazy lot. Lazy, and ungrateful.
Not to mention ugly, especially the men. They were little more than big hulking gorillas, especially in the wits department. Black women had some savvy to them, but black men? They were better suited for the jungles where they came from.
"They want you to dance for them," the words of on the screen echoed in her head with her own voice, and the tugging in her head grew stronger. "They want to give their money for you."
The image changed, this time taking the vantage point of the dancing stage, showing the black men looking up at Darcy as she strutted and twirled on the pole. Their eyes were transfixed on her, one her enormous sagging white udders, and they were throwing money at her.
Darcy felt a strange mixture of fear, disgust, and something else welling up inside her as she stared at the image. A foreign feeling. Was it desire?
Another image, this time turned back around, showing her kneeling with her hands squeezing her tits. The black men were desperately waving at her their big black wallets stuffed with cash. They wanted her. They yearned for her white pussy.
She adjusted her glasses and smirked. It would be nice to dominate these idiots, she found herself thinking. Yeah, dominate them, use them for their money. The tugging resumed. Dominate the monkeys, exploit them, empty their big thick wallets, empty them completely.
"You need a good stripper name, something memorable," the machine stated. "How about, 'The Cash Cow'?"
