The Breeder
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
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The Breeder
A black man will Tim’s wife the one thing he couldn’t
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
© Copyright 2024 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Breeder
I don’t know how to start, but I’m fine. I don’t know how I will write this, but I have read many stories about cuckolds. Now, I don’t know if they are fiction or real. But I need to write a true story about my ill-fated life. I am 39 and married to Ginger, my wife, who is now 36. We both were virgins when we married, and we always enjoyed a healthy relationship.
I’m sterile, so we will never have kids of our own, and I’d never want to adopt any, and she agreed.
Nonetheless, I would pound her good two or three times a week and make her feel satisfied. She was a conservative lady, and we both worked, and all was fine.
But all this changed in a sudden manner. Ginger went out of town one week to visit her mother in our hometown. Her trip went well, but once she returned, my wife confronted me and told me she would like to have wanted to have kids.
Well, hell’s bells. I was shocked since I was sterile, and she knew it.
“Why the sudden change?” I asked.
“One of my girlfriends from high school dropped by to see me with her three kids in tow. That’s when I realized what you cheated me out of.”
“Okay, maybe we can adopt,” I said, angry with her about the whole fucking thing.
“No,” Ginger said, “I want to feel them grow inside my body.” As she explained it, she rubbed her belly and lower.
“I can’t give you that,” I said. Inside, I fumed, but I tried to hold my temper.
“I know, but it can still be worked out.”
“Yeah, we can get artificial insemination, I guess.” I still didn’t want kids, not in any way other than my own kids. They’d be hers but not mine. But if we must have another man’s bastard, artificial insemination would be the way to go.
“Too impersonal,” she said, pouring two glasses of Scotch over rocks. Ginger handed me one glass and walked from the couch to an armchair across from me. Sitting down, crossing her shapely legs, she had this smirk.
“If memory serves, your boss, Mr. Allison, has a handsome 21-year-old son, right?”
“You’re kidding me, right? The Allisons are black, and I don’t know that they’d donate sperm to inseminate you with.”
“I told you, artificial is heartless.”
“That kid will be my boss next week. You can’t mean you want to fuck him.” I swallowed the booze in one gulp. I suppose I hoped it would help. It didn’t.
“Hardly that. This will be a spiritual union, a copulation to produce strong offspring we can nurture and raise. Perhaps two or even four children to call our own. After all, God created sex for procreation, not for your personal pleasure. I’m tingling all over thinking about it.”