It was right after my thesis was accepted that my graduate advisor took ill and was hospitalized, so I was assigned a new advisor to help me prepare for the oral exam.

Dr. Brownlee was a senior fellow at the nearby Institute for the Study of Curative Equity, but she had been Dean of the Sociology Department here at New Dominion University and, in fact, had developed the Black Studies program in which I was enrolled. So I was both pleased and a little intimidated to meet her.

“Come in.” Her voice responded to my knock in a deep, rich contralto. As I entered she looked up and said, “You must be Wayne Wanley.” Not hard to guess; after all, I’m one of only a handful of white guys on campus.

“Yes, Dr. Brownlee. Thank you for seeing me.”

I was a little intimidated. She was seated behind her desk, large, colorful, and imposing, her dark skin glowing with vitality and her big, expressive eyes sparkling with intelligence. As impressive as she was at first sight, my awe of her only grew the longer I was in her presence.

I was also flattered that she had already read my dissertation. She told me not only that she had enjoyed the read, but also that she found my thesis intriguing. After some small talk, she began asking really good questions, which I think I handled very well. She seemed satisfied at any rate, and by the end of our meeting we were getting along like old friends. Well, almost.

“I really want to thank you for stepping in to advise me, Dr. Brownlee,” I said as we were wrapping up.

“Call me Adele, please,” she said, getting up to shake my hand.

“Thanks, Adele,” I said gratefully, looking into her large, penetrating eyes as she gripped my proffered hand.

She stepped from behind her desk as if to escort me to the door but, with my hand still in her firm grasp, she said, “If you have a few more minutes, I’m curious to know more about you.” She nodded toward the couch and I took a seat there, happy that she was interested in me on a personal level.

“Sure, Adele. What would you like to know?” I smiled. I probably looked as eager as I felt.

She sat down beside me, her large, rotund derriere taking up literally all of her half of the divan. “Well, for starters, what led a white boy to go into Black Studies and, in particular, to do your research on sexual stereotyping?”

“Well, I grew up in a kind of activist family. My grandparents marched with MLK, but our history goes a lot further back. My father’s family were abolitionists, and my mother’s ancestors were slaveholders in Maryland who freed their slaves before the Civil War. So I’ve always been interested in the history of slavery and its legacy in terms of race relations.”

“Is that why you chose to attend a historically black university?” she prompted, “And why NDU in particular?”

“Yes and no...” I said, a little self-consciously. “I was considering a couple of HBCUs because I thought their Black Studies programs would be more extensive, but the truth is I came here because my girlfriend did.”

“Oh?” she said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Yeah ... well, Susan split up with me when we were still in high school. She applied here because that’s where her new boyfriend was going and I knew their relationship wouldn’t last. I was right about that, but we never got back together.

“What happened to her?”

“She dropped out and I lost touch with her. After Eric, she started dating a basketball player ... well, not just one ... anyway, she got into a lot of partying and I was focused on my studies, so we drifted apart.”

“Was she dating black men exclusively?”

“Yes,” I said, looking into Adele’s penetrating eyes. “We talked about that a couple of times - we were still on friendly terms - and she used to laugh and say ‘Once you go Black you can never go back.’”

“I’ve heard that before!” She chuckled in deep musical tones. “Is that what led to your thesis topic?”

“Yes. Well, pretty much. My interest in that particular aspect started in my sophomore year. I ran into Susan at an off-campus party. She was pretty drunk, and she told me a bunch of wild stuff about the guys she’d been dating, and it just sounded so fantastical. So I started looking into the myths and stereotypes, you know. And I found a whole subculture with online communities obsessed with ‘BBC’ and ‘BNWO’ and such.”

I smiled at her. “It really was fascinating!” It was a little arousing to be talking about these things, things that I myself had become caught up in, to some extent, with her, a mature black woman of power and authority. I was definitely attracted to her, even if she was forty years my senior.

“So that explains your thesis,” she said, returning my smile.

“Right!” I said, feeling encouraged.

“I’m curious ... if you don’t mind my getting a little personal, do you have any direct experience with the topic? ... Have you dated any black women, for example?”

I blushed a little. “Well I really haven’t dated very much since Susan ... I went out with a couple of women here on campus, but nothing long-term.”

“So, you really don’t have direct experience.” She grimaced slightly as if she didn’t like the way that sounded. “That is to say, your research is primarily in the literature, correct?”

“Yes, well, I also did quite a few interviews,” I responded.

“As I recall in reading your thesis, those interviews were all with white folks regarding their interracial fetishes, am I right?” she asked.

“Yes, absolutely.” Again I was flattered that she had taken so much interest in my work. “As my thesis statement is, ‘The fetishization of African-American superiority in white America is a form of racism,’ my focus was on the people who play in that world.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Adele allowed. “I think it would be fascinating to delve into your topic from the black perspective too, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. I thought of that, Adele,” I said, “but I realized that that would make too broad a subject for a doctoral thesis.” I was enjoying this conversation very much. And I was enjoying Adele’s company; I could have gone on for hours.

“Would you be interested in doing a post-doc fellowship at the Institute if I could arrange one for you?” she asked. “Seems to me that an expansion of your thesis into the realm of lifestyle applications would fit very well with our mission.” She looked thoughtful. “I mean, do you have anything specific lined up yet?”

That was totally unexpected! “No, nothing lined up ... Wow, thank you!” I said, possibly too eagerly. “I’d love an opportunity like that! It sounds incredible!” I enthused.

She smiled indulgently. “Yes, I think it would be fascinating to have you join the institute. You would be the first white person on the team. That wouldn’t bother you, would it?” she said, clearly watching for my reaction.

“Really, there aren’t any white people?” I said, not hiding my surprise.

“Oh, there are quite a few white people there, just not on the research staff.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering, but she did not elucidate.

“Yes, having a nice white boy on the team could definitely make things more interesting.”

Something in the way she said “nice white boy” gave me a funny feeling. I was not particularly self-conscious about my size - I’m just shy of five-foot-seven, about the size of the average woman on this campus it seemed - but I was tired of being taken for a teenager all the time. I had tried to grow a beard, but it was so light and thin that I still got carded at the liquor store at the age of twenty-five.

But it wasn’t a reference to my youthful appearance, I thought. No, I was certain that she was alluding to how I would be perceived by her colleagues at the institute. Racism works both ways, after all, so perhaps she was simply acknowledging the hurdles I might face there.

Nevertheless, being called a “nice white boy” evoked some of the tropes I had studied in my research. That must have been why my attraction towards Adele that had been steadily growing suddenly took a steep rise. As did my dick! And that made me a bit wary; a part of my mind sensed some danger.

She patted my hand gently, as if she intuited my discomfort, and it was reassuring for some reason. “I’ll make a point of bringing it up at the board meeting next week.”

“Wow! I can’t thank you enough, Adele,” I gushed. “I’ve heard the ISCE mentioned a lot, but no one seems to know much about what goes on there,” I added with hopeful curiosity.

“Well, with any luck, you’ll be finding out firsthand this fall,” she said, evading my unstated question.

“But getting back to your personal life,” she said, deftly changing the subject, “weren’t you intrigued by the mystique of black sexuality, since that was your focus?”

She observed me blushing. “I mean, you weren’t dating much, if at all,” here she raised an eyebrow inquisitively, “the whole time you were doing this research, right?”

“Well, no.” I answered honestly. I shrugged. Now it seemed that she intended to arouse me. But to what end, I wondered.

“Weren’t you tempted? I mean, here you are living among hundreds of young black people, learning all about the sexual fantasies white people have about them...” She paused and looked at me with a kind of motherly, you-can-tell-me-anything expression. “Come on, surely you’ve tried a ‘Big Black Cock’ at least once.”

“No, ma’am,” I said, suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable. My face felt very hot and I was tempted to tell her that I had often masturbated to that fantasy: sucking Big Black Cock; worshiping Big Black Cock; not to mention worshipping Big Black Women like her. I was allowing myself to fall under her spell.

Adele patted my hand again and once again I felt reassured. “Well, that can soon be remedied. I can see you’re very shy, and you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she said in soft dulcet tones.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, grateful for her kind words and needful of her approval. “I do try to be good.”

“I know you do, Wayne,” she said beneficently. “That’s why I’m going to help you.” Her smile melted my heart. “I know lots of nice Black Men who can satisfy your need for Big Black Cock. I’ll introduce you to one. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Adele, thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to say, feeling anxiously aroused and conflicted with both shame and gratitude.

“You’re such a good boy,” she said, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “and you’re so young and pretty; I’m sure that a big, strong Black Man would find you quite appealing.”

This only increased my anxiety, but Adele reached out to me and, instead of patting my hand, she stroked my cheek softly with her manicured index finger. This was not so much calming as mesmerizing. It felt so intimate! She traced the contour of my cheekbone downward toward my mouth.

“Yes, a pretty little white boy like you...” she murmured softly. Her palm caressed my clean-shaven chin as her thumb grazed feather-light across my lips. They tingled erotically and parted slightly, involuntarily, sending electric currents of need throughout my body, down into my throbbing dick. “ ... a lovely treat for a big, strong Black Man.”

I shuddered involuntarily from the conflicting emotions I’m sure Adele knew she was arousing in me. “Um, I’m not sure, I...” I started to mumble, trying to backpedal out of this frighteningly erotic situation.

“Nonsense!” said Adele briskly. “Don’t be coy with me, now. You’re certainly pretty enough to attract any number of Big Black Men. They’ll be delighted with you!” she enthused.

“But that’s not...” I tried to protest.

“Hush, now,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it.” She moved her hand to my elbow. “Here, stand up. I want to look at you.”

She gripped my elbow with surprising strength, impelling me forward. I stood up. I turned to face her. My dick was so hard! It seemed that my dick was controlling my brain, because I wanted her to see it. I wanted her to be aware of my arousal and to know how much I wanted her. I was putty in her hands. (Did she know that?)

She knew. She extended her right foot up my leg and rubbed her bare sole against my hard-on. I admired her fat, dimpled knee, revealed when the bright African-print cloth of her long skirt rode up her rising leg. I think I moaned.

“Let’s get your clothes off, shall we?” she said, ever so politely. “Would you undress for me, Wayne?”

“Um, uh...” I sputtered stupidly.

“Only if you want to, Wayne,” she said sweetly, still rubbing my dick with her foot. She had shifted a little and now I could see a broad expanse of her naked, dark-brown thigh sagging softly, invitingly.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I just want to get a better look at you.” She pressed her foot harder, grasping at my bulge with her muscular toes. “Is this for for me? Do you like me, Wayne?” she asked archly.

“Um, yes, ma’am,” I muttered dizzily.

“Such a good boy!” she exclaimed softly. She dropped her foot and leaned forward. Grasping my belt buckle with both hands, she looked up into my eyes. “And a pretty one, too,” she whispered seductively.

“You do want to show me, don’t you?” She unfastened my belt and the button of my jeans and lowered the zipper. She leaned back in the divan and smiled. It was such an encouraging smile! “Do you want to undress for me?”

I no longer had any thought but to consent. I quickly pulled down my jeans and my underpants. Slipping off my crocs, I stepped out of my pants and pulled my polo shirt off over my head, exposing my pale white chest as well. I was completely naked, blushing, standing before the new object of all my deep and secret desires. My five-inch boner was fully extended almost straight up, bobbing slightly with every fervid beat of my captive heart.

“Ooh, aren’t you a pretty boy!” Adele cooed, making my head spin. “Turn around, please. I want to see all of you.”

I turned around, facing away from her, exposing my backside to her gaze, hoping that it too would please her.

“Oh, Wayne!” she said in admiring tones. “Your little tushy is perfect!” I was thrilled. “Could you back up closer to me?” she asked nicely.

I happily complied with that request too, and not a moment later felt her hands fondling my naked bottom.

“So lovely ... so soft and pale,” she mused. She squeezed my cheeks and kneaded them gently. I relaxed my glutes completely after the split-second clenching that had occurred upon her initial touch, and luxuriated in the sensuousness of her massaging fingers, moaning softly.

“Yes, you like that, don’t you, boy?” her voice spoke softly, musically, in my ear. Her fingers kneaded into the crevice between my ass-cheeks, prying them apart.

“Oh, yes...” I murmured.

“I think you’d be a fitting prize for even the finest black prince to acquire,” she said in a dreamy voice. A finger grazed my tiny virgin hole. My cock pulsed; I was very close to cumming.

“Would you like that?” she asked softly, pressing the soft tip of her finger on the center of my anal bullseye and tapping gently. “Would you like to be possessed by his Big Black Cock?”

“Unngghhh,” was the only response I was capable of because I started cumming! She pressed her finger two-joints deep into my tight hole, sending invisible sparks flying all over, up and down my spine, into my scalp; even my my toes tingled. And my aching dick erupted. I felt its hot lava hit my chest. I heard it spatter on the hard wood of the office floor. I nearly passed out.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Adele laughed. “Now turn around and face me.”

Gathering my scattered wits, I turned and beheld her smug smile. I wasn’t too sure it was a good thing, what had just happened. My orgasmic ecstasy was rapidly waning and I had completely disgraced myself. Hadn’t I?

“Oh, look,” she said, reaching out to scoop up the cum on my chest with her finger. “You’ve creamed yourself!”

She sounded quite pleased, as if I had performed a difficult feat for her. She held her goop-covered finger up to my lips.

“Here, you go,” she said authoritatively. I parted my lips. She put her finger gently into my mouth and I sucked it clean. It felt deliriously demeaning. My first taste of cum. It tasted kind of gross. I swallowed it. I felt like I had no choice, as if I had no will of my own. Adele fed it to me, so I ate it.

“Good boy!” she praised me like she would praise an obedient puppy.

It was​ demeaning; she meant it to be. (“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she had told me.) But there was no “wanting” or “not wanting”. Or was there?

I enjoyed it. I was positively reveling in this feeling of being demeaned. I had read about this, the eroticism of submission. I must have wanted to do it. Why else was my dick getting hard again?

“My, you have a quick trigger,” she said, surveying the cum-spattered floor, “and so much cum from these little pink balls!” she laughed, giving them a gentle squeeze. They immediately began to tighten up as my dick rose.

“Would you be a dear and wipe up your mess for me?”

I looked around for something to clean with, a box of tissues, a paper towel maybe. “Just use your shirt,” she said. So I got down on my hands and knees. The shirt was right there, next to the spray of cum, easy to reach, easy to use. I was done in a few seconds.

“No, don’t get up yet,” she said sweetly. “Just crawl over here.” She patted the seat between her knees. “I like you like that.”

I turned on my hands and knees and crawled the short distance to sit on my heels between her feet. She tousled my short blond hair affectionately. My hard dick was poking up between my thighs, pointing right at her, a compass to her true north.

“You’ve been such a good boy,” she said, beaming a smile of pure benevolence. “How can I reward you for such good behavior?” she asked rhetorically. I just sat and stared at her, rapt by her magnificence.

“I know!” she exclaimed happily after pondering a moment, “I’m going to let you worship my pussy! How does that sound?”

“Oh, Adele ... Yes, please!” I said eagerly.

She shifted her big ass forward and lifted the hem of her skirt. I put my head under the broad, brightly colored fabric and breathed in her dark musk. I could see she had no underwear.

Pressing my face between her plush thighs, I nuzzled into her grey curls and found her moist, tangy slit. My tongue led the expedition, followed by my lips, as together we delved into her silky depths, juicy with fragrant nectar.

I sighed, shuddering with passionate delight. And then I sought and devoured her big, bulbous clit, licking it hard between nibbles, until I heard her moan. I frantically flicked my tongue vigorously back and forth against her clit as fast as I could. I kept up as much suction as I could, dropping my jaw so that I could drink her effluence as it poured from her gaping cunt.

I was transported with pure pleasure; my throbbing dick was nothing now; all that mattered was this amazing pussy and the goddess it belonged to.

And then she came. She pulled my hair hard with both hands and smashed my face deep into her pulsing maw as her thighs clamped my head like a vise, smothering me, drowning me, sending me to paradise.

All was quiet. Only the heavy breathing of two sated souls. When she had recovered her breath, Adele opened her eyes and smiled down at me, my face shining, drenched with her fragrant spend.

“I think you just passed your orals,” she laughed.