A white wife decides to be black bred

We assembled in the lobby, all seven of us naked, and it was the first time I really got a good look at the other women. More than anything, I was shocked at how young Melissa was. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. She was gorgeous — almost six feet tall, skinny, flawless alabaster skin, with blonde curls almost to her bellybutton. I’m sure she had had loads of sexual experience — she probably had to fight the boys off. But I couldn’t imagine what would lead a girl so young to a place like this.

Peggy was clearly an old pro. She had jet-black hair in a pixie cut, rings in both nipples, and a tattoo that read, “slut for black cocks” across the top of her ample right breast. I had heard most women got their tattoos in places that were easy to hide — the ass, the inner thigh, right above the pussy. But if she wore anything at all low-cut, her proclivities would be announced to the world. I asked if she had gotten it at the Resort, and she told me this was her seventh time here, but she’d only been successfully bred twice. She was hoping for number three this week. She asked me if I had been bred yet.

I was still nervous about talking about this stuff, but I figured if I was ever going to start, now was the time. “Not… I mean… I have two kids… but they’re my husband’s. This will be my first… my first black baby.”

She smiled and squeezed my arm. “I bet it won’t be your last. There’s no feeling more powerful than being bred by black men. Especially the way we do it here.”

A few of the other women made some noises in agreement. I looked around at them. A 30-ish white woman with a shaved head wearing a slave collar they hadn’t made her remove when they took our clothes. An Indian girl, light-brown-skinned, with a ring in her clit and a tattoo of the Ace of Spades on her belly and another just above her slit that said “black owned.” Another white woman, pale as a ghost, with red hair stopping just shy of her light pink nipples. I didn’t see any tattoos or piercings, just a gold wedding band on her left hand. An Asian woman with a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm — they weren’t even R-rated, so I assume she didn’t get them here — and blonde streaks in her long hair.

I felt very unhip compared to these women. I didn’t have any tattoos (yet), nothing was pierced but my ears, and my blonde hair was short, straight, and in a conservative cut that made me look like a soccer mom. Hell, I was a soccer mom! I dropped my two blond-haired boys off at practice every Sunday morning!

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So, what the hell was I doing at the Resort?

* * * * *

It started ten years ago, before I was even married. Cuckolding had gone pretty mainstream since people first started talking openly about it back in the 2010s. I’m not saying it was something you’d bring up on a first date or put on a resume. But it was about where S&M was a generation before — definitely a kink, but something that at least some people weren’t ashamed of being open about being into.

My husband Dave was one of those people. I knew when I married him that he wanted me fucking black men while he watched, and before long most of our friends knew too. You’d think a even a lily-white couple like us wouldn’t be so hung up on race in this day and age, but those taboos die hard. There was still something thrilling about watching a black cock rubbing up against my blonde bush.

I couldn’t help myself; I got into it as much as Dave did. Shit, how could I not? The sex was great! I began to wonder how “normal” married women could stand it, having sex with only one man. I had been with five men before I met Dave, and more than twenty since. I eventually settled on a stable of four or five regulars who’d I’d get together with every so often. Every one of them had a cock significantly bigger than Dave’s six inches, and while that may have made him feel inadequate, he couldn’t hide how erotic he found it. We talked all the time about how those cocks went to a place inside me that he just couldn’t reach. In fact, I nicknamed my favorite lover Captain Kirk, because his eleven inches had boldly gone where no man had gone before!

So we were a regular couple, going to work, barbecuing with the neighbors, but once or twice a week, I’d get to fuck a well-hung stud a few times while my husband watched. It was a pretty great deal. We took a break for a few months so Dave could get me pregnant — fortunately, I conceived easily — but I fucked my black friends all through my pregnancy, and picked right up again two months after giving birth. At one point, Kirk had his cock buried deep inside me, both of his hands were on my belly, and he said something about how he wished he had been the one to plant a baby in me.

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Pretty sure I had an orgasm right then and there, but I didn’t take it seriously except as a fantasy. But something changed in Dave that day. He started to obsess over the idea. He kept telling me my next baby was going to be black, and asked me if I wanted Kirk to do it, or whether I wanted to fuck five or six guys and not know who the father was. I’ll admit that I enjoyed the fantasy, but I told him firmly it was just that.

But we did indulge the fantasy a bit more. We started getting together with other couples into the cuckold lifestyle, and a few were talking seriously about the wives being black bred. Dave talked about it like it had already been decided. I wasn’t so sure. I mean, at this point it wasn’t unheard of. Back in high school, one of my friends had a little sister who was half-black, and her parents (both white) were still together. And of course, there’s that blonde actress — you know who I mean — who married that English guy and then let that basketball player get her pregnant. They all talked about it so openly. It made a lot of people uncomfortable, but it made some of us feel like we weren’t so strange for wanting this so badly.

So it wasn’t unthinkable. But it was still a pretty big deal. I think that’s why people had started to be fascinated with cuckolding — not too many things were taboo nowadays. There were gay couples celebrating their golden anniversaries; the receptionist at work wore a leather slave collar and would wear backless tops to show off the whip marks she had gotten the night before. Pretty much anything sexual was out in the open. But a married woman getting pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband? On purpose? With her husband’s encouragement? That was still a big leap for most people to take.

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