entrancegpt-the-library
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Entrancegpt The Library

Entrancegpt The Library

by fine_tuner
18 min read
4.46 (5800 views)
adultfiction

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.

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"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'?"

More images appeared, cascading down the dialogue box like a zoetrope, and the librarian felt as though she was being swept under, pulled into them. Darcy was no longer sitting at the checkout desk of the library, but at the back of a seedy night club, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of alcohol, neon lights flashing. And she was no longer Darcy. She was the Cash Cow.

She stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and walked toward the stage at the center of the night club. The music throbbed through her body as she climbed onto the platform, feeling the spotlight on her pale, milky skin. The black men in the audience hooted and hollered, their dark faces lit up by the strobe lights. The stripper swallowed hard and began to dance, moving her hips in time with the music. Her big tits bounced, and she could feel their eyes on her, tracking her every move.

Glancing down, the Cash Cow noticed an especially well-endowed gorilla in the front row, his fat black cock poking out of his shorts. She sauntered over to him and bent down, her tits hanging, as though gravity itself were suckling from her nipples.

"You got something for me, boy?" she said to him.

With a grunt, the gorilla reached up and stuffed a wad of bills into her garter belt.

She laughed at him and asked, "Ever been with a white woman before?"

His eyes widened and he shook his head

"Well boy, this is gonna be your lucky night."

The Cash Cow slid down from the stage, undulating right onto the black monkey's lap. Straddling him, she began to grind against his crotch. His ebony skin radiated heat, and she could almost taste the sweat on his obsidian skin. The audience cheered, urging her on, and she ground harder, pressing her pussy against his iron rod.

The spearchucker whispered in her ear, "I'm finnin to give yo' som more o' ma money." She felt him slip something into her bra. "I'm finnin to put ma money in yo' belly."

At her desk in the library, her skirt pulled up and her index finger pounding her pussy, Darcy panted as she imagined herself reaching into her bra and pulling out a crumpled, soiled fiver. The stripper version of herself in her mind was going to protest that it was far too little for what the coon wanted, but then the tugging returned. As if with a will of its own, her hand slid in more fingers. She moaned wantonly.

The Cash Cow slipped her panties to the side, exposing her pussy to the grinning gorilla beneath her. Somehow his cock had also gotten free. Her heart raced as she slowly impaled herself on him and groaned as his enormous girth stretched her. She had only ever been with white men. Were all black cocks this huge?

The other black men howled as her customer began to thrust up into her. It wasn't long before he roared and his enormous muscles trembled as he pumped her belly full with his honky cash.

A flurry of new images poured through Darcy's mind. She saw the Cash Cow on her back on the stage, her slender legs spread wide and dirty one dollar bills scattered all around her, as the monkeys lined up to take turns filling her up, one after another emptying their nigger seed into her cracker whore womb. She was their cheap hole to buy, their obedient hole to use, their fertile hole to knock up.

Darcy was snapped out of her trance by the sound of a woman somewhere in the library screaming in orgasm. It took her a moment to realize the woman was her.

The images were gone from the dialogue box. In their place was an address for a "Pharaohs Gentleman's Club". Darcy recognized the address as somewhere on the edge of city, in one of the working class black neighborhoods.

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The librarian's heart began to pound. She quickly gathered her things and hurried out of the library to her car, forgetting to lock up. And as she passed through the doors, she heard loud shouting from upstairs. "Fuck yes! This black ass belongs to you!"

* * *

"Black ass was meant for white cock," Stella repeated, smiling again and pressing her ass harder against Clark's crotch, swiveling and sliding over it. Feeling its length along her butt crack, she thought to herself, yeah, definitely huge.

As she rode her groaning classmate, she noticed the chatbot write a new message: "His white cock owns your black ass."

Stella blinked and shook her head. What the fuck did it just say?

As if hearing her thoughts, it replied: "Your great grandmother, and her mother and grandmother before her, all took white cocks up their asses."

Her ass pushed against Clark's cock with even more force. Her mouth hung open as she continued to read the screen.

"One negress after another," the chatbot droned on. "Generation after generation, serving white cock."

"Serving white cock..." she mumbled, her eyes glazing over.

Underneath her enormous ass cheeks, Clark trembled.

"Proudly serving white cock."

"Proudly serving... white cock..."

"Obedience is in your genes. Your ancestors were bred by white cock, to serve white cock."

"Bred... by white cock..."

"Be proud of your heritage," the words slithered across the screen. "Take that white cock up your black ass, its rightful place."

While all this had been going on, Clark had been in a veritable trance, watching her hips gyrating and feeling her ass against his rock hard dick. But then Stella stood up and slid off her pants and underwear. Without getting out the chair, Clark hurriedly did the same.

He watched as she reached into her purse and pulled out a container of hand lotion, then proceed to pour all of its contents out onto his throbbing cock. He felt a slight burning sensation, likely from the essences and perfumes in the lotion.

His classmate spun around and gripped her ass cheeks, pulling them apart. She again lowered herself down onto his lap, slowly and carefully. Clark aimed his cockhead at her rosebud.

"Oh yeah," she breathed as she pushed downward. After a moment, her sphincter started to relax and his white cock began to slide into her depths.

Clark dug his fingers into her hips and muttered, "So tight..."

In reply, Stella rose her hips up, then pushed back down. She repeated this movement for a few minutes until she found a rhythm.

The machine began to write again: "You are just a piece of black ass. You are the property of white cock."

"Oh fuck yes!" she cried out. "This ass belongs to you!"

"You are nothing but his nigger."

She moaned and shouted, "Fuck your nigger! Fuck your property!"

Her words seemed to pour fuel on the fire. Clark felt his hips buck up violently, and with a loud cry, he came deep inside her. Stella arched her back and basked in the sensation of her owner's cock throbbing and twitching.

The former classmates stayed seated for a moment, panting, their bodies connected in a tangled mess on the chair. Then, slowly, Stella began to move her hips upward, drawing Clark's softening cock out of her. Once he was fully out, she knelt down before him, pushing his knees apart, and began to lick his deflated cock clean, his cum dribbling out of her asshole.

The screen flickered, and Clark looked up. It showed another image, a surprising one: Stella was naked except for a black metal collar around her neck. Her dark belly had grown large and round, and Clark was standing behind her, hands on her hips, his cock erect and ready to penetrate his property again.

The negress' lips moved from his cock to his scrotum. She wrapped her lips around one of his balls and sucked it into her mouth, running her tongue around it. Clark gripped her hair and looked again at the image on the screen. His eyes settled on her swollen belly, her full womb, full with a baby, his baby, his white baby, and he understood what he needed to do.

* * *

Somewhere else, someone was logging into EntranceGPT, oblivious to the dark fate that awaited them...

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