Chapter 10: The Squirting Lesson

Morning light cut through the blinds in pale stripes, striping the tangled bodies on the pushed-together beds. Drake's pale skin was luminous—alabaster against the dark chocolate and rich brown of the women flanking him. Tameka stirred first, her microbraids rustling against his chest, her full lips brushing his shoulder.

"Morning," she murmured, her Southern drawl thick with sleep.

"Morning." Drake's blue eyes were already open, already calculating. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in weeks." She stretched, her chocolate body arching, her heavy breasts pressing against his pale side. "What time is it?"

"Early. Shanae's still out."

Shanae lay on his other side, her dark brown skin gleaming with the remnants of shea butter, her natural afro crushed against the pillow. Her thick body was curved like a sculpture—heavy breasts, wide hips, soft belly. Her full lips were slightly parted, her breathing slow and deep.

"Let her sleep," Tameka said, her dark eyes tracing Drake's pale features. "She was up late."

"So were you." Drake's hand found her hip, his pale fingers splaying across her chocolate skin. "Both of you. Very accommodating."

Tameka's smile sharpened. "Accommodating. That's one word for it."

"What word would you use?"

She leaned closer, her braids falling forward, her bronze-painted lips brushing his ear. "Satisfying." Her tongue traced the shell of his ear. "But I'm not satisfied yet."

Drake's cock stirred. Even soft, it was impressive—pale flesh, blue veins, the head a deep pink against the white sheets. Tameka's dark eyes tracked the movement, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

"Shanae's still asleep," Drake said.

"So? Let her sleep." Tameka's chocolate hand slid down his pale chest, her fingers tracing the ridges of his abdomen. "Or wake her up. I don't mind an audience."

"An audience." Drake's grin was predatory. "What if I want more than an audience?"

Tameka's hand paused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" Drake sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist, his pale torso catching the morning light. "—I want to see you two together. Really together. Not just sharing a bed. Sharing each other."

Tameka's dark eyes widened. Her chocolate features registered surprise, then curiosity, then something darker. "You want us to...?"

"I want you to eat her pussy." Drake's voice was calm, instructional. "While I fuck you from behind. I want to see your dark body grinding against her dark face. I want to hear you moan into her cunt. I want to watch you make her come with your tongue while I make you come with my cock."

The words hung in the air. Tameka's breathing had quickened, her heavy breasts rising and falling. Her chocolate nipples were hardening, the dark areolas puckering.

"I've never—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I've never been with a woman before."

"Then it's time to learn." Drake's pale hand cupped her dark cheek. "You're curious. I can see it. Your body is responding. Your nipples are hard. Your thighs are pressing together. You want this."

Tameka's eyes flicked to Shanae's sleeping form. The dark brown woman's thick body was curved beneath the sheets, her heavy breasts rising and falling with each breath.

"She's beautiful," Tameka whispered. "I've always thought so. But I never—"

"Never had permission." Drake's voice dropped. "I'm giving you permission. I'm telling you it's not just okay—it's expected. You're both mine. Both of you. And I want to see my property play together."

The word hit Tameka like a physical blow. Her dark eyes glazed. Her chocolate thighs pressed together visibly. "Property."

"My jungle bunnies. My nigger sluts. My beautiful black whores." Drake's pale hand slid from her cheek to her throat, his fingers wrapping around her dark neck. "Say it."

"I'm your—" Her voice cracked. "I'm your nigger slut."

"Good girl. Now wake Shanae up."

---

Tameka moved slowly, her chocolate body sliding across the sheets. She positioned herself beside Shanae, her dark hand reaching out to touch the sleeping woman's cheek.

"Shanae." Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "Wake up."

Shanae stirred. Her dark brown eyes fluttered open, her full lips parting. "Tameka? What—"

"Drake wants us to play." Tameka's chocolate fingers traced Shanae's full lips. "Together."

Shanae's eyes widened. She looked past Tameka to Drake, who was now sitting against the headboard, his pale body on display, his white cock fully erect and jutting up toward his stomach. The pink head glistened with a bead of precum.

"Play how?" Shanae's voice was husky with sleep.

"Like this." Tameka leaned down and pressed her bronze-painted lips to Shanae's full ones.

The kiss was tentative at first—two pairs of dark lips meeting, testing, exploring. Then Shanae's hand came up, her dark brown fingers threading through Tameka's microbraids, and the kiss deepened. Tongues met. Breaths mingled. The sound was wet, soft, intimate.

Drake watched, his pale hand wrapped around his white cock, stroking slowly. "Beautiful. Both of you. Now take off the sheets. I want to see everything."

They obeyed. The sheets fell away, revealing their bodies—chocolate and dark brown, both thick, both curved, both glistening with the remnants of last night's shea butter. Tameka's body was longer, leaner, her heavy breasts high and firm, her legs endless. Shanae's body was shorter, curvier, her heavy breasts larger, her hips wider, her belly soft and inviting.

"Tameka, on your hands and knees over Shanae's face," Drake commanded. "Shanae, you're going to lick her pussy. Tameka, you're going to grind on her tongue. And I'm going to fuck you while you do it."

The women moved into position. Tameka positioned herself on all fours, her chocolate body hovering over Shanae's dark brown face. Her pussy was already wet—the dark lips glistening, the inner folds pinkish-brown, the scent of her arousal filling the air. Her ass was high, her back arched, her microbraids hanging down.

Shanae looked up at the sight above her—Tameka's chocolate thighs, her glistening pussy, the tight pucker of her anus. Her full lips parted. "You're so beautiful."

"Eat her," Drake said. "Now."

Shanae's dark hands reached up, gripping Tameka's chocolate hips. She pulled her down, her full lips pressing against Tameka's wet folds. The sound Tameka made was not a word—a gasp, a moan, a broken cry.

"Oh God—"

"Good girl," Drake murmured. "Now make her come. Make her squirt."

Shanae's tongue emerged—pink against the dark folds of Tameka's pussy. She licked slowly at first, exploring, learning. Her tongue traced the length of Tameka's slit, circled her clit, dipped inside her. Tameka's hips bucked, her chocolate body trembling.

"Fuck—Shanae—that's—"

Drake positioned himself behind Tameka. His pale body was a stark contrast to her chocolate one—alabaster against dark, white against black. His cock pressed against her entrance, the pink head nudging her wet folds.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Please—please fuck me—"

He pushed inside.

The sensation was overwhelming. Tameka's pussy was hot, tight, wet—a furnace that gripped him like a fist. He thrust slowly at first, his pale hips moving against her chocolate ass. The contrast was hypnotic—white flesh against brown, pink cock inside dark pussy.

"Look at that," Drake said, his voice rough. "My white cock inside your black cunt. The contrast. The taboo." He thrust deeper. "Say it."

"White cock—" Tameka gasped. "White cock inside my nigger pussy—fuck—"

Shanae's tongue was working faster now. She'd found Tameka's clit, was circling it with the tip of her tongue, her dark fingers gripping Tameka's chocolate hips. Her own body was writhing beneath the weight of the other woman, her heavy breasts heaving, her thick thighs pressing together.

"Make her come," Drake commanded. "Make her squirt all over your face."

Shanae obeyed. Her tongue pressed harder, her lips sealed around Tameka's clit, sucking. Tameka's body convulsed. Her chocolate skin flushed darker. Her microbraids swung wildly.

"Oh God—oh God—I'm going to—"

"Do it," Drake growled. He thrust harder, his pale hips slapping against her chocolate ass. "Squirt for me. Soak her face. Show me what a good nigger slut you are."

The orgasm hit Tameka like a tidal wave. Her pussy clamped down on Drake's cock—once, twice, three times—and then she exploded. A gush of clear fluid erupted from her pussy, spraying across Shanae's face, her afro, the sheets. The sound was obscene—wet, gushing, primal.

"Fuck—" Tameka's voice was a scream. "Fuck—"

Shanae's mouth was still on her, still licking, still sucking, drinking her down. Her dark brown face was soaked, her full lips glistening, her afro damp. But she didn't stop. She kept working her tongue, kept sucking, kept pulling more fluid from Tameka's spasming pussy.

"Good girl," Drake said. "Both of you. Such good little jungle bunnies."

He was still fucking Tameka through her orgasm, his pale cock driving into her chocolate pussy. The wet sounds of his thrusts mixed with the wet sounds of Shanae's mouth—squelching, slurping, obscene.

"Now switch," he commanded. "Shanae, on your hands and knees. Tameka, eat her pussy."

They moved like puppets on strings. Tameka pulled herself off Shanae's face, her chocolate body trembling, her pussy still dripping. Shanae rolled onto her hands and knees, her dark brown body curving, her thick ass raised, her pussy already wet and waiting.

Tameka positioned herself beneath Shanae, her chocolate face looking up at the dark brown folds above her. "You're so beautiful," she whispered. "I've never—"

"Lick her," Drake said. "Now."

Tameka's bronze-painted lips pressed against Shanae's pussy. Her tongue emerged—pink against the dark brown folds. She licked slowly, tasting, learning. Shanae's flavor was different—muskier, earthier, more intense.

"Fuck," Shanae breathed. "Tameka—"

Drake positioned himself behind Shanae. His pale cock was still wet with Tameka's juices, the shaft glistening. He pressed against Shanae's entrance, the pink head nudging her dark brown folds.

"Ready, nigger?"

"Yes—massa—please—"

He pushed inside.

Shanae was tighter than Tameka—her pussy gripping him like a vise, her walls clenching. He thrust slowly at first, letting her adjust, then faster. His pale hips slapped against her dark brown ass—white flesh against brown, pink cock inside dark pussy.

"Eat her," he commanded Tameka. "Make her come. Make her squirt like you did."

Tameka's tongue worked faster. She found Shanae's clit, circled it, sucked it. Her chocolate fingers gripped Shanae's dark brown hips, pulling her closer.

Shanae's body was trembling. Her thick thighs were shaking. Her heavy breasts were swaying with each thrust. "Oh God—oh God—I'm going to—"

"Say it," Drake growled. "Say what you are."

"I'm a nigger slut—I'm a jungle bunny whore—I'm your property—please let me come—please—"

"Come. Now."

Shanae's orgasm was explosive. Her pussy clamped down on Drake's cock, her body convulsing, and then she squirted—a torrent of clear fluid gushing from her pussy, soaking Tameka's face, her braids, the sheets. The sound was wet, primal, obscene.

"Fuck—" Shanae screamed. "Fuck—"

Drake kept fucking her through it, his pale hips driving, his white cock plunging. The wet sounds of his thrusts were magnified by the fluid—squelching, slurping, obscene.

When he finally pulled out, both women were spent. Tameka's chocolate face was soaked with Shanae's squirt. Shanae's dark brown body was trembling, her pussy still spasming. The sheets were ruined—wet with sweat and cum and squirt.

Drake stood beside the bed, his pale body glistening with sweat, his white cock still hard. "Look at you. Both of you. Soaked. Spent. Beautiful."

He stroked his cock slowly, his pale hand moving up and down the shaft. "Now clean each other up. Tameka, lick Shanae's pussy. Shanae, lick Tameka's. I want to see you taste each other."

They obeyed. Tameka's tongue found Shanae's pussy, licking the remnants of her squirt. Shanae's tongue found Tameka's, tasting her own fluids mixed with the other woman's. They moved in a slow, intimate rhythm—two dark bodies intertwined, two dark faces buried between two dark thighs.

Drake watched, his pale hand moving faster. The sight of them—chocolate and dark brown, licking and sucking, tasting and worshiping—pushed him closer to the edge.

"Beg for it," he said. "Beg for my cum."

"Please—massa—" Tameka's voice was muffled by Shanae's pussy. "Please cum on us—mark us—"

"Please—" Shanae's voice was desperate. "Please—we need it—we need your white cum—"

"Open your mouths."

They pulled apart, their dark faces turning toward him. Their mouths opened—Tameka's bronze-painted lips, Shanae's full dark lips. Their tongues extended, waiting.

Drake stroked himself once, twice, three times. Then he came.

His cum erupted in thick white ropes, spraying across their dark faces. It landed on Tameka's bronze lips, her chocolate cheeks, her microbraids. It landed on Shanae's full lips, her dark brown nose, her natural afro. The contrast was hypnotic—white cum on dark skin, pale fluid marking brown flesh.

"Swallow," he commanded.

They did. Their tongues collected his cum, their throats worked to swallow. Tameka's dark eyes rolled back. Shanae's full lips curved into a satisfied smile.

"Thank you, massa," they said in unison.

---

Later, the room was quiet.

The morning light had shifted, the pale ribbons now falling across the floor instead of the beds. Tameka and Shanae lay tangled together, their chocolate and dark brown bodies intertwined, their faces still marked with the remnants of Drake's cum.

Drake stood at the window, his pale body still naked, his blue eyes scanning the campus below. Students were beginning to move—black bodies crossing the quad, heading to class, to breakfast, to the library.

His safari was progressing. His collection was growing. And there were still so many more to claim.

The door opened.

Karleville stepped inside, his dark roast coffee skin catching the light, his glasses slightly askew. His angular frame was tense, his jaw tight. He stopped when he saw the bed—the two naked women, the ruined sheets, the smell of sex and squirt and cum.

"Busy night?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Productive." Drake turned from the window. "How was yours?"

Karleville's expression flickered—something complicated, something unreadable. "Interesting."

"Interesting." Drake's grin sharpened. "Melinda's something, isn't she? All that pale skin. All that blonde hair. The way she talked about her father—" He paused. "Did she tell you about her father?"

"She mentioned him."

"Old South. Traditional values. The kind of man who still uses certain words in private." Drake's blue eyes were cold. "Did you use those words with her?"

Karleville didn't answer.

"Did she use them with you?" Drake pressed. "Did she call herself a snowbunny? A coal burner? A white whore for black cock?"

"Something like that."

"Good." Drake's voice was satisfied. "She's been wanting that for years. Ever since she was a teenager, sneaking onto the internet, looking at interracial porn. She told me once—drunk, at a party—that she wanted to know what it felt like to be dominated by a black man. To be called a slave. To be used." He smiled. "Sounds like you gave her what she wanted."

Karleville's jaw tightened. "She's not like the others."

"None of them are like the others. That's the point." Drake crossed to the bed, looked down at the sleeping women—Tameka's chocolate body, Shanae's dark brown curves. "Each one is different. Unique. A new specimen for the collection." He glanced at Karleville. "Melinda's a specimen too. A white woman who wants to be degraded by black men. That's rare. That's valuable."

"She's not a specimen."

"She is. Just like Shanice. Just like Nia. Just like Deja, Kiana, Tiara, Amara." Drake's voice was calm, clinical. "They're all specimens. Beautiful, unique, fascinating. And they're all ours."

Karleville was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What happens when the semester ends?"

"What do you mean?"

"When the semester ends. When we leave. What happens to them? To us? To all of this?" He gestured at the room—the bed, the women, the evidence of conquest.

Drake shrugged. "The semester's not over yet. We've got months. Weeks. Days. Hours." He smiled. "Why worry about the ending when we're still in the middle?"

"Because endings matter." Karleville's voice was quiet. "They're what define the story."

"Then let's write a good ending." Drake clapped him on the shoulder. "But first, let's write a good middle."

He turned back to the bed. Tameka was stirring, her chocolate body stretching, her microbraids rustling. Shanae's dark brown eyes were opening, her full lips curving into a smile.

"Morning," Tameka murmured. "Again."

"Morning again." Drake's pale hand reached down, cupped her chocolate cheek. "Ready for round two?"

Her dark eyes gleamed. "Always, massa."

Karleville watched for a moment longer. Then he turned, walked to his desk, sat down. His highlighter was still there, still uncapped, still waiting.

He picked it up. Opened his book. Began to read.

But his eyes kept drifting to the bed—to the pale body and the dark ones, to the contrast, to the taboo.

To the safari.

And somewhere, deep in his chest, something was shifting. Something was changing. Something was becoming.

He just didn't know what it was yet.