Bred By Blacks! - Lady Devreux - ebook

Bridget lost her first marriage when she gave birth to her obviously mixed daughter. Relocating to Utah, she has rebuilt her life as a Mormon wife. Her husband believes the lie that she is part Indian, and has no idea about her past. When he can't give her another baby, she decides to get bred by Black men. Problem is, her oldest son walks in on this- what will he demand for his silence? Excerpt “I didn’t ask you, bitch,” Brock said, looking at me- he was telling me that he was still the one making the decisions. James just stood there- he couldn’t stop looking, which was to be expected (I was sure that he had been always curious about my body, in the same idle way I was curious about his)- but he didn’t make a move either. “Alright,” Brock said, “What’s the problem, J?” “Huh?” James said. “Man, I told you when I brought you into this, that I’d get you all kind of pussy,” Brock said- no, this was definitely not the first time he had used that Black dick on some local woman, “And you ain’t never seemed to have performance trouble before. So what’s the deal?” “I don’t know,” James said, not wanting to tell the truth. “I might have to get another road dog,” Brock said, “If you can’t get it up, then maybe I need to find another partner who can?” My son and this Black man obviously had some sort of arrangement going on between them. “You got lucky, me getting you into this,” Brock said, “So fuck the hell out of this bitch, or I’m going to have to cut you loose!” Brock was now giving my son orders. My son didn’t like anyone telling him what to do- whether it was my husband, or me, or his teachers in school- but once Brock had made it clear that he had ti fuck me, his response was almost immediate. James undid his zipper, and he slid down his oversized jeans- underneath, he wore black and yellow boxer shorts, silk underwear, and these were soon taken off as well. My son was not one drop Black, but as he exposed his cock to me, I was impressed by it’s size. He wasn’t as long as his Black friend- James seemed to be an inch shorter, about eight in length- but even from across the room, I could see how thick he was. His cock jutted upwards slightly, at an angle, the head red and angry and ready for action. Maybe he could not verbalize the fact that the sight of his naked mother turned him on- maybe he could not bring himself to approach me on his own- but his cock had other ideas. It only saw me as a naked woman, a naked cum soaked slut who was ready to be fucked again, and it was more than ready to do the job. “I don’t think-” I tried to say. I was impressed with the cock of my son- if it was any other man, I would have already crossed the floor, and knelt down to take it into my mouth. It isn’t some random man- it is James, your only son, your oldest, and if you do this, then you are the worst kind of slut! “You wanted dick,” Brock said, directing the scene, “Well, what’s wrong with my homeboys’ dick?” “Nothing,” I said, “It’s just that-” “What, because he is White?” Brock said, “Look, bitch, all that racism bullshit is over with. You want to be a slut, then you get treated like one.” What a way to advocate for racial harmony! “It’s not because he is White,” I said. It is because he is my son!

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CHAPTER ONE Chameleon Of Fortune

CHAPTER TWO Decisions Of A Molly

CHAPTER THREE Diversity In Numbers

CHAPTER FOUR Enjoying Black Brock

CHAPTER FIVE Fucked In Many Ways

CHAPTER SIX Getting Jimmied



Chameleon Of Fortune

Chapter One: Chameleon Of Fortune

My favorite animal has always been the chameleon.

The chameleon isn’t a predator, he doesn’t have big claws and he doesn’t roar, but he does know how to change himself to get by.

I am not saying I am a good woman- or a bad one- just that I have always seemed to know when the wind is about to change direction. I am a survivor, and no matter what, I will get through whatever storm life tosses my way. This doesn’t mean that I will always make choices that other people would approve of, but when it comes down to it, I will always choose whatever seems to be the best choice at the time. Yes, like all people, I make mistakes- and sometimes I regret what my choices have led me to do- but that is life. We have all done this, at one time or another, I am just more willing to admit to myself at least how I naturally am.

I am not going to blame my parents or society for turning me into the person I am- even though how we are born and how we are raised does indeed affect us, we still ultimately make our own decisions. I knew by the time I was sixteen that living in some isolated farm community in Wyoming was not for me. I didn’t want to marry one of the dozen boys at my school, I hated the smell of cattle, and I was tired of my mother implying that I was a lesbian simply because I didn’t submit to men publicly. My older brother was going to get the ranch, my younger sister was already set on marrying our neighbor’s son, and I had my feet out the door as soon as I figured out a way to get out of that there. The way that I got out of that town- and the isolated and cold state of Wyoming- involved taking off in the middle of the night for a local truck stop.

A driver with Mississippi plates, hauling farm equipment from Iowa to California, offered me a ride. I had never met a Black man before, but despite the fact that he was older than my father, he managed to take my virginity that night. He left me on the side of the road in Reno- I went to use the bathroom, and I was gone. I wasn’t angry at him, as the pictures all over his cab told me he had a wife and several children back home, but I was sore and on my own in Nevada.

The next few years, I managed.

They weren’t easy, and I wouldn’t say I was a prostitute- I served tables in the morning, but if a man caught my eye and he talked the right game, many times I would meet up with him later. Sometimes money was exchanged, sometimes just bodily fluids- I didn’t just sleep with anyone. I was choosy, I didn’t have a pimp or a “manager”, I simply was a young woman who was figuring out her way in the world. Most of the time, I preferred the company of Black men when it came to sex.

Not all Black men are as hung as the stereotype claims- some are small, just as some White men are very well endowed. But, in general, Black men do tend to have a larger dick- and White men tend to be better at eating pussy.

I never got into drugs or drinking. A lot of girls in my situation do, as they are not happy with themselves for what they are doing, but I never had some sort of guilt because of it.

This world is based on exchanges, whether or not we want to admit it.

Yes, most women never go so far as to take cash for sex- they consider that to be disgusting- but women do flirt with guys to get bigger tips. Women who work in offices often play the game with their male managers, for everything from raises to a better cubicle. Many women marry a guy that they are not really attracted to, simply because he is a good provider and promises them a better life. And men get something out of the deal, too. Anna Nicole Smith married an old man when she was in her prime. So what if he was paying to fuck her basically- he enjoyed the end of his life, and it was his money to spend.

Maybe I could have made more than just enough to keep a roof over my head, and maybe I could have become a true professional, but after five years, I was starting to get worn out by both dealing with different men and the craziness of life in a state that is built on gambling and sex. I moved to Vegas, which really is not a town you want to live in. The movies make it out to be all glitter and glamour, but there is definitely a layer of dirt that is just under the shiny surface. In Vegas I did better financially- I finally bought a car- but I also had more competition. The casinos started keeping an eye on me- they have their own house prostitutes, women that are “managed” by the same people who manage them, and since I was an independent, I was starting to get harassed by security staff every time I set foot in their doors. I had to work off the Strip- in that steaming shit pile known as old downtown- and the money nosedived as well as the quality of the men that I serviced.

I do like sex, a lot- and I don’t have some sort of “moral” compass that results in any self guilt- but I was in my twenties, and I saw what the future had in store for me if I kept on with what I was doing. So far, I had been fortunate not to run into any bad clients. I could either become the property of some pimp (which is just as bad, or worse), or I could get out of the game. When I discovered I was pregnant, I knew that it was time to stop living like this.

I agreed to go on a date with a man I had just met- he was an airman at Nellis- and it was an actual date. We had sex on the second date, and then I told him I was pregnant.

Sure, it wasn’t right to lie to him, and make him believe that my unborn child was his, but it was both a necessity and an exchange. My new boyfriend was tall, but he was extremely dorky looking- with thick glasses, and a nasally voice from his New England background- and very socially awkward. Nice, but not someone that was able to score a halfway decent woman without having money. His government pay was far from enough to qualify him as rich, even if the check came in twice a month like clockwork. I didn’t love him- I couldn’t say that really loved any man at that point in my life- but I liked him.

We were married three months later. My mother in law hated me- the old bag seemed to see right through me- but my new husband refused to listen to his mother. I gave up my side activities, and when he was transferred from Nevada to New Mexico, I felt like the old part of my life was now over. I was now a new mother, with a son, twenty three years old and ready to simply move on again. I still had my looks, even if the pregnancy had put some weight on me, but I was ready to give “normal” life a try.

For awhile, it worked- he would come home every night, I would make dinner, and we had a life of regularity. The same television shows every week, Sunday was a day when he mowed the little bit of grass we had, and once or twice a month we would go out for dinner. It was steady, it was reliable, but it was not exciting at all.

Well, Bridget, this is what you chose for yourself.

Once my son was two years old, I was starting to get bored with everything.