Blacked In The Barn! - Lady Devreux - ebook
Opis

Linda is everything a Texas woman is supposed to be- a former cheerleader who married the star football player, she is a stay at home mom on the family's ranch. Her dirty secret is that she likes Black cock- but what will happen when her son finds this out? Excerpt: Nobody wants to be the one whom is cheated on- but their is a big difference between the relationship I have with Jimmy, and the one that my son had with his wife. The difference is twenty five years, and three children. Even if my husband did not go ballistic and do something stupid, the revelation that I had fucked two Black guys would destroy him. This is Texas, and this is a small town, and people talk. “Do you know what it is like to not have sex for years?” I asked my son, hoping to gain some sympathy. “That’s the same thing that Danica said,” Bobby remarked, his face now as red as a beet, “What a fucking shocker, the woman always uses that as an excuse.” “You act like men don’t cheat,” I said. I couldn’t deny that I had done something wrong- but I wasn’t going to be bashed for being a woman, or let all women be bashed either! “I never did,” Bobby said, “That’s because I had a wife back home.” “You couldn’t have cheated over there, anyway,” I said, “Moslem countries don’t exactly-” “Now you are going to tell me about Iraq?” Bobby said, pure venom in his tone, “Look, mom, if I wanted to, I could have fucked a female soldier- and yes, there are prostitutes there, too, even if people think that there isn’t!” There might be prostitutes, but how often do you see a woman that looks like me, your mother, in the Middle East? “I haven’t had sex in over two years,” Bobby said, “That was the last time I saw her, before the last time they sent me to the sandbox. And I am a twenty five year old man!” “So because I am a forty nine year old woman, you think I want sex any less than you do?” I laughed, “Maybe your father can’t get it up anymore, but I need sex. And I need more than a political rant every morning.” Bobby paused again- in our argument, he had lost his train of thought, so I took the initiative. “Look, I like fucking Black guys, okay?” I said, with finality, “I don’t have to explain that to you. Now, if you ain’t got nothing more to say, then this conversation is over.” “No, it’s not over, mom,” Bobby said, a sudden gleam in his eye- the same gleam I had seen in the eyes of T-Bone, “You like fucking Black guys- well, let’s put it all out then, let’s say what we really want. You say you ain’t been fucked in years, that’s why you want to cheat. I know what it is- you think that Black guys have bigger dicks, and you think that if you are going to be a cheater, than you might as well do it up, right?” It’s hard for a mother to lie to her son- just as it is hard for a son to lie to his mother! “Well fine,” Bobby said, “Maybe I can’t convince you to stop being a slut! But I can tell you what- if you like big dicks, and you get off to taboo, then why don’t you come here and suck this cock?”

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO Chapter Two

CHAPTER THREE Chapter Three

CHAPTER FOUR Chapter Four

CHAPTER FIVE Chapter Five

CHAPTER SIX Chapter Six

CHAPTER SEVEN Other Books

CHAPTER ONE

Chapter One

Chapter One: Bitter Jimmy

Times have changed a lot in the forty-nine years that I have been alive.

Although I was born towards the end of the civil rights struggle- at the very close of the turbulent sixties, when the president was a Republican who played both sides of the issue and the entire country was trying to figure out itself- I was born in north central Texas, in a little town that was between Denton and the Oklahoma border.

Texas is the South and it is the West, it is the United States and the Confederacy, but above all else, Texas is Texas. The nature of our nation/ state has always been a matter of debate, among Texans, Texas exiles (those who were born here and move somewhere else), and Texas immigrants (Yankees mostly, as opposed to immigrants from other places). As crazy as it may sound to people whom have never been to the Lone Star State, us actual Texans are really the moderates in the whole argument over what Texas means- Texas exiles love to bash us, their own people, and in many cases, once a Yankee has lived here ten years he acts more Texan than those of us who had ancestors that fought in the Texas Revolution. Those who came down here because of a military transfer or a job opportunity end up discarding their small Japanese cars for pickup trucks, losing their nasally accents, and inevitably fight over whether the Aggies or the Longhorns are the team to follow/ worship (even if they attended Michigan or U Mass.)

Texas has always been trying to figure itself out- it wants in the United States, but it wants to do it’s own thing, and do things in a uniquely Texan way. Texas makes sweet tea and eats biscuits and gravy, we have plantation museums and the monuments that one can see in any town square from here to Virginia, but we also love our Mexican food and beef brisket. We are all of the above at the same time, an enigma- while Texas was a segregated state when I was born, it was still an old style career Democrat from Texas who effectively ended segregation in the entire country. Likewise, the last president of Texas (whose family were of Yankee New England stock), did very little to promote civil rights.

We are all a product of our environment and our heritage, two things that may seem to contradict each other yet are tied into each other the way that any Texan can never forget the Alamo (even if there own ancestors were Mexicans who fought on the other side, or people from Germany who moved to Texas to escape conscription).

I am a woman, I am a Texan, a rancher’s daughter and a rancher’s wife, and I have a secret.

I simply love Black cock- that’s right, I love it when a strong Black man slams his big dark rod into my wet pussy, and he shoots his thick pearly white seed inside of me or in my throat!

Some people might not think this is really a taboo thing anymore. With each passing generation, more and more people choose to marry or at least date and have children with people not of their own race- even among Texas Anglos, who still might frown at seeing a White woman like me with a Black guy, many of them have no issues about marrying an Asian or a Mexican woman.

I am not a twenty year old, but a member of Generation X- the so called generation who grew up between the baby boomers and the computer kids who drink five dollar lattes and obsess over social justice and other such issues.

Even as a member of Generation X, I am still a Texan, from a small town, and I was raised to believe in certain things.

Our family were never the rabid Klansmen that one sees in the piney woods of east Texas or other parts of the South. While my father still didn’t believe that marrying Black people was a good idea- and he was adamant that two men or two women cannot be married- we were far from racists. Our north Texas town had a few Black families, and when the local school was finally integrated in my fifth grade year, it was done with little fuss. Sure, some of the older people at the time were convinced that this was the beginning of the end, but really it was not. When we got our first Black teacher- an older lady who taught home economics in my senior year- the event passed with even less fanfare. Even my father greeted Ms. Phillips, and he said she was as good as any White teacher would be.

Racist, no, but certain things were expected of me growing up, and for the most part, I did exactly what my parents wanted me to do.

I started cheer leading when I was barely old enough to know what it was, and in high school, my mother was convinced that the only reason I didn’t become a baton twirler (yes, that is considered a very prestigious honor among Texas women), was because Geraldine Carson was sleeping with the principal (so her daughter got the honor). I had almost went to A and M, and the plan was that I was going to try out for the squad at College Station.

That was my mother’s plans, but my father- and Jimmy- got in the way of that.

Most men naturally dislike any boy whom shows an interest in their daughter, but from the first time I accepted a ride home in the rusty F100 of our best running back, my father decided that my real future lay with this man. Baton twirling was an honor, and being a cheerleader (even if for the Aggies, and not the Longhorns) was a greater one, but the greatest honor a Texas woman could hope for was to marry a good man who owned good land and came from a good family.

Jimmy was all of these things, and more- his family owned property that was virtually next to ours, property that brought them a steady income from their three wells- and he was not known to be a drunk, a druggie, or a troublemaker. While he wasn’t part of the “Silent Majority”, and Jimmy listened to ZZ Top instead of Hank Sr, he was far from being a hippie. My father despises long hair on men, and the first thing he said when I got out of the old sky blue Ford was, “Well, I see he cuts his hair.”

Jimmy’s family was not prominent enough to warrant statewide attention, but his mother was on good terms with my own mother, and his father was known as the rare example of a good mechanic that didn’t screw people over. All of these things were great of course, and I was happy that my father liked Jimmy, but I had my own reasons for dating him.

Jimmy in those days looked really good in the way that he filled out his uniform- his tight pants clinging to a long, slim frame, his ass showed off in the white and gold of our local Lions- and when he smiled, it melted my heart. He had one chipped tooth, right in front, but that only added to the sparkle in his green eyes. Perfect is great, but near perfect is better- his chipped tooth showed that while he was a good looking man, he was not quite a god.

Jimmy also was not pushy when it came to sex- on our second date, he seemed almost too shy, as he put his hand on my arm but he didn’t try and move down or up my body. I would have given in to him if he had wanted me to- a woman decides within five minutes, even if subconsciously, whether or not she is going to sleep with a man- and Jimmy could have easily nailed any of the girls in our high school that wanted nothing more but to get knocked up by an athlete. Instead, he waited nearly three months, and when it happened one afternoon- behind the old drive in screen on FM 18900, which was already shut down and on it’s way to demolition- he was as gentle as a man who was six three could be.

At that time, I did not have the current the fetish I have now. I loved how dark Jimmy was, burned reddish bronze from his work on his ranch under the Texas sun, but I was not chasing after Black guys. There were three Black guys in our class, and they were already taken by the five Black girls in our school- maybe our small school was integrated without the spitting and fighting of the larger cities, but they hung out in their own group as we did. This wasn’t a racist thing, this was just the way it was in the eighties.

Jimmy was my first, and my mother seemed to know after it had happened. That meant of course that my father knew too. Instead of talking about it, or making idle threats against Jimmy, my dad told me to “marry that boy before he gets his scholarship and his ticket out of here.”

Jimmy’s parents- who I miss now- must have said the same thing. We were married one week before our senior year ended, one day before the Sooners had offered Jimmy a place on their team. Jimmy had not told his father or my father which team he was going to be playing for- this would have been as egregious as the actions of the San Patricios, abandoning Texas for a rival power (even if that power was on the football field, and not in the field of battle).