No it continues!

The dream deepened, pulling you further inside until there was no difference between thought and sensation.

Jamal, again, stood before you, towel low, droplets rolling down his chest. His eyes held you still, but then, movement behind him. The shadows parted, and suddenly Darnell, James, and Samuel joined him. All four of them, just like before, towering, dark, impossibly defined.

They surrounded you slowly, like a tide coming in, their bodies radiating heat that made your skin prickle. Each man seemed larger than life, carved out of muscle and confidence. You felt small between them, so damn pale in comparison, your body lit differently, as though you'd been placed here only to be seen, to be appraised and not to be heared.

“Look at him,” Darnell rumbled, his voice low with approval. “Showing off that perfect phat, white ass, like he knows what it’s for.”

James chuckled, deep and rich. “Built for BBC. That’s what he is.”

A hand, you didn’t know whose, slid over your bare shoulder, firm and possessive, guiding you slightly, reminding you, you couldn’t step away even if you tried. Samuel leaned close, his breath hot against your ear.

“You feel it too, don’t you? How right this is. How good you look in-between four black men… with us.”

Jamal stepped in, his palm grazing your waist, sliding slowly, deliberately, down to the curve of your hip. The touch made you shiver, every nerve alight. Jamal’s hand lingered there, squeezing lightly, his thumb pressing into soft flesh.

“So damn sexy,” Jamal whispered, his lips so close they brushed your temple. “You were made to be touched. To be admired. To be black owned.”

You gasped, chest rising and falling quickly. Your body betrayed you, warmth spreading low and heavy, your dick is harder thrn it ever has been before and your legs trembling as though the floor beneath you might give out.

The men closed in tighter, their skin brushing yours, the faint scent of soap and sweat thick in the air. Everywhere you turned there was a dark muscular chest, a shoulder, a thigh. Hard black bodies pressing in, framing your pale form completely.

Another hand, larger this time, slid across your back, tracing down your spine until it cupped your phat, white ass firmly. You let out a choked sound, half-protest, half-need.

“Damn,” James groaned, his hand tightening on that curve. “So soft. Just perfectly made for us.”

Samuel’s voice followed, smooth and insistent: “Touch us, Emile. We know you want to. Don’t fight it.”

Your own hands trembled, hovering uncertainly in the air until one of the men, Darnell, caught your wrist and placed it directly against the firm heat of his chest. The muscle flexed beneath your palm, solid, unyielding. Your fingers spread instinctively, feeling the curve of strength.

“Good boy,” Darnell murmured approvingly. “That’s it. Feel what real power is.”

The others encouraged you too, Samuel guiding your other hand across his abs, James lowering Emile’s touch to his hip, closer, ever closer. Everywhere you touched was hard, hot, alive. The sounds they made, low groans, sharp breaths, only wound the dream tighter, hotter, until your head spun.

Then, Abigail’s voice.

It drifted from nowhere and everywhere, soft at first, then clearer. Her tone was sweet but commanding, like honey poured over steel.

“See, Emile? This is what it’s like. To submit. To let go. To give yourself to someone stronger… superior.... darker. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Her words echoed, twining into your thoughts until they felt like your own. Your body trembled, your knees weak. Surrounded, touched, praised, you had never felt so small, so wanted, so dizzy with something you couldn’t name.

Jamal’s hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “On your knees, snow bunny.”

The words slid into you like a command written in fire. Your body obeyed before your mind could protest. You sank down slowly, your pale thighs brushing the men’s legs as you lowered yourself. When you looked up, they towered over you, a wall of muscle and dark skin.

You were caged, overwhelmed, every angle filled with their presence.

All around you, broad hips, heavy thighs, the swell of underwear stretched tight against huge bulges, so close you could feel the heat radiating through the fabric. Your breath came fast, chest rising and falling as you tilted your face up toward them, caught between awe and surrender.

“Perfect,” Samuel muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Jamal stepped forward, his towel hanging lower now, barely clinging to his hips. Your hands hovered uncertainly, then rose, trembling, until your fingers brushed the edge of the damp fabric.

“You want it,” Jamal murmured, his voice like a velvet chain around your throat. “Take it off. Show us what you really crave.”

The other men groaned their approval, their voices overlapping,“Do it white boy.” “Go on, snow bunny.” “yoi know, you were made for big black cocks.”

Abigail’s voice laced through theirs like silk. “Don’t fight it, Emile. Let it happen. Just be a good white boy and give in.”

Your heart thundered. Your mouth was dry. With a shaking breath, you curled your fingers into the towel at Jamal’s waist and began to pull...

Only for the dream to shatter.

You woke with a gasp, sitting upright in bed, chest slick with sweat. The room was dark, silent except for your ragged breathing. Your body burned with leftover heat, every nerve still alive with the memory of touch, of voices, of being surrounded.

But you were alone.

And yet… you didn’t feel alone.

The echo of Jamal’s words lingered in his ears, low and undeniable.

“You were made for this.”