Breeding Beverley

Bev and I met when she was 32 and I was 39. We were married the same year and as the clock was ticking for both of us we decided to start a family as soon as possible. At first it was fun trying to make a baby and then laying together after the most fulfilling sex, Bev with a pillow under her bottom to help direct my precious sperm in the right direction and me with a contented grin on my face. However, the months soon turned to years with no sign of a pregnancy and, conscious of our increasing ages, we sought medical advice.

Tests proved that we were both healthy and fertile, but antibodies in Bev's cervical mucus were attacking and killing my sperm, making a natural conception most unlikely. IUI was recommended, involving me delivering a semen sample to the clinic on the day of the procedure, which would then be prepared for insertion via a catheter directly into Bev's womb thus bypassing her aggressive cervix. Fortunately it was a much cheaper treatment than IVF, but at £200 a time we had to set a limit of six attempts.

By the 5th attempt we were getting a little anxious, with no sign of a much wanted pregnancy. On the allotted day matters were complicated by my car refusing to start, which meant that I would have to travel by bus to the clinic to deliver my sample before continuing on to work. Bev had her own car, but she was not required for her part of the procedure until several hours later.

I sat upstairs on the bus, to enjoy a different view of what was by then becoming a familiar route. For the first few stops I had the upper deck to myself, but eventually two young black men made their way up and sat level with me across the aisle. One of them was drinking from what appeared to be a bottle of vodka partially concealed in a paper bag and they were both quite loud. At the next stop several new passengers began to ascend the stairs but, presumably deterred by the volume of the increasingly foul language coming from my unchosen travelling companions, they retreated to the lower deck. I wondered if I should join them, but I was mindful that it was probably getting crowded down there.

Instead, I tried to concentrate on the significance of this day and almost without thinking found myself taking the all-important specimen pot from my pocket and studying it. The bus suddenly lurched to a halt at a junction and my grip on the pot was loosened, sending it spinning to the floor in the aisle. It attracted the attention of the man sitting nearest to me and to my horror he picked it up. "What's this?" he enquired, before answering his own question. "Hey, this dude is on his way to plant his seed at the fertility clinic." I grimly reflected that he was unexpectedly perceptive for such a coarse individual before yelling, "Oi, give that back."

"No chance," he said, wearing a malicious grin and my heart sank. "No, what we need to do," he continued, "is to make sure that the special lady gets some real fertile seed, like only a black bull can give." He then proceeded to unscrew the lid of the pot and I leaped to my feet, attempting to grab it. However, he passed it to his companion and arose to meet my challenge. He was strong and powerfully pushed me back into my seat, with his accomplice rushing to help restrain me. Together they pinned me down whilst one of them forced the bottle of vodka into my mouth, wrenching my head back so that the contents poured freely down my throat.

Thankfully, the bottle was somewhat less than half full, but I am not a heavy drinker and with an empty stomach (I had not had time for breakfast) the alcohol soon started to have an effect. My resistance quickly abated as my head reeled and one of my assailants was able to release his grip. I watched in despair, helpless as the lid of the specimen pot was completely removed and the precious contents allowed to slowly trickle onto the floor. My last memory before I blacked out was of an enormous, fully erect black penis being released from the straining crotch of tight-fitting jeans and the owner starting to masturbate above the almost empty pot.

There was a rude awakening for me at the bus depot, with the driver, a ticket inspector and a transport manager shaking me until I came to. Fortunately I had sobered enough to at least attempt to explain my predicament, although initially they were not inclined to believe that my drunkenness was the result of an enforced assault. The urgency in my voice persuaded them to let me call my wife before they continued with their questions, which were mainly about me travelling further than my ticket allowed. Dialling her number, I prayed that maybe the receptionist at the clinic would have realised that the specimen pot was being handed in by somebody different and made enquiries. Or maybe they were just bluffing and hadn't taken the sample to the clinic at all.

"Bev," I said as she answered the phone, "did you go to the clinic?" "Of course," she replied, "and the doctor said you had produced a particularly impressive quantity. I have a good feeling about this." Her puzzlement when I groaned was rapidly replaced by shock and alarm as I quickly explained what had happened. There followed a period of bewilderment and disbelief for both of us as we gave our statements to the police, who confirmed that the crime of which we were the victims certainly constituted assault and possibly rape, although to the officers involved this was an unprecedented case.

At last we were left alone to try to make sense of our situation and to understand the implications. We knew that Bev may not fall pregnant, of course; like previous occasions the procedure might not work. But what if it did, what if she became pregnant with another man's child, a stranger and..... and black! A termination was the obvious answer in the event of this scenario, but we both knew that it would be a bitter disappointment after trying so hard for so long.

By the time of Bev's missed period and the subsequent positive pregnancy test we had carefully considered all the implications and arrived at a pragmatic decision. We were, at last, getting the baby we so desperately wanted, albeit not as we expected. He or she would be loved and considered a gift, not a burden. Our respective families were unaware of the traumatic events of almost a month ago and we could pass off the fact that our baby was mixed race as a mix-up at the clinic. When our son was born, a beautiful dark-skinned little boy with wide brown eyes, we named him Sean, which derives from an Irish word meaning Gift from God. Bev's mother is Irish and she was delighted.

This could be the end of our extraordinary story, except to say that we lived happily ever after, but for a chance meeting in the street about six months later. I was proudly pushing the buggy, Bev beside me, when my eyes met the gleeful gaze of a shockingly familiar character. "Well if it isn't Mr Fertility Clinic," he sneered mockingly, "luckily a real man was able to give your beautiful wife what she really needed, a black baby. You should thank me and beg for another."

I was stunned by this sudden meeting with my nemesis, although it had been in the back of my mind as a possibility since the police investigation had failed to make any progress. However, I was absolutely incredulous at Bev's reaction. "Yes, thank you," she beamed, "and would you really help us to have another?"

My head was spinning faster than when I had involuntarily swallowed the vodka on the bus, as Sean's real father pushed the buggy back to our house. I couldn't believe what was happening as we welcomed the stranger who had initially caused us so much pain and anguish into our home. Part of me wanted to call a halt to the madness that was about to happen, but I felt a deep sense of guilt at what I had put Bev through, even though it had been beyond my control. I was aware that she was broody again, longing for another child that I could not give her and if this was what she wanted, who was I to deny her? At least it would be a real, biological brother or sister for our precious Sean and I had to admit that things had worked out rather well so far. So Clyde, as we found he was called, took another huge step into our lives.

I set about settling Sean down in his cot, preparing his bed-time milk and reading him his favourite story as Clyde carried giggling Bev in his strong arms up the stairs to our bedroom. By the time I had finished I could hear clear sounds of passionate moaning and I pushed the door ajar, peeking around it to see my wife being ravished by the ebony stud on our marital bed! "If you're coming to watch your wife being bred, stand quietly in the corner and don't interrupt," he commanded. I did exactly as instructed and felt myself growing ever harder as I saw her lips open and surrender to his mouth, sighing as his dark hand caressed her lily white thigh, moving slowly higher with each stroke. Eventually he expertly removed her demure pink knickers, daintily trimmed with white lace, and in the dim light they glistened with her glorious dampness.

I must admit that I had long harboured a secret fantasy about watching Bev having sex with another man, but I never expected it to come true. Yet here I was, actually living the dream and I knew it wouldn't be long before I shot my own load. Clyde turned his attention to Bev's nipples, which were erect and straining upwards, as if determined to reach the ceiling, gently nibbling one between his teeth and tantalizingly tweaking the other between thumb and forefinger. He nearly sent her over the top as he began to deftly flick his tongue against the nipple held captive by his teeth and she finally exploded with a shuddering orgasm when he moved one hand down to her soaking mound, carefully running his fingers through her neatly trimmed, minimalist bush just close enough to tease her swollen clitoris with the minimum of contact.

"Fuck me, fuck me now," she begged, "I want your baby, another black baby!" Without answering he moved his head slowly southwards, his long tongue tracing its progress on her porcelain skin, pausing to explore the piercing in her navel before eventually reaching the final destination. He drew his tongue purposefully along the length of her slit before rapidly flicking her engorged bud, sending her into a frenzy of desire and longing. She screamed and tensed as intense waves of pleasure almost too exquisite to bear pulsed throughout her body, tingling from head to toe. "Please, please," she whimpered.

Clyde was not going to deny her any longer and he positioned his huge, throbbing penis for the final onslaught. Cautiously he slid it into her tight vagina, inch by inch, stretching it both in length and volume until eventually it was inserted to the hilt. Even after childbirth this was a big cock to accommodate. He began moving rhythmically, slowly and gently at first, but gradually quickening and thrusting ever deeper and firmer, almost as if he was conducting 'Bolero' to an orchestra. Bev responded enthusiastically, echoing his rhythm and bucking wildly as his massive manhood drove hard against her cervix and their pubic bones crashed as if trying to permanently fuse together. He panted and she screamed as they reached a crescendo, culminating in Clyde uttering a deep, guttural groan as his balls tightened and with one final, supreme thrust he shot his huge load deep within her most intimate space.

Bev reached orgasm in unison, even more intensely than before, convulsing uncontrollably as her involuntary moans capitulated to one, final scream of ultimate fulfilment. She was a physical and emotional wreck, quivering, exhausted and totally spent, fit only to be gathered in Clyde's arms as he held her close whilst she silently wept soft tears of joy.

I too had shot my load, far bigger than for some time, my exposed, straining cock bursting of its own accord from the internal pressure of my ramrod erection, without the need for manual stimulation. The moment had come at about the time I saw Clyde's ball sack tighten, from the sheer excitement of knowing he was about to impregnate my wife for the second time. My own sperm had travelled at least four feet before landing without purpose on the bedroom carpet, destined to become just an impotent sticky stain, unlike the rich, fertile sample from my black superior, my wife's new breeding stud.

The question was, would Clyde's more virile and powerful ammunition defeat the antibodies in Bev's cervical mucus? We only had to wait about three weeks until we had confirmation that an overjoyed Bev was indeed pregnant again. Our marriage has survived this potentially destructive event and is indeed thriving, with sex between us never better and deep contentment with our expanding family. If anything we love each other stronger and deeper than before and can hardly wait for the arrival of our second child. We have made a pact with Clyde that he will continue to breed Bev at every opportunity for the remainder of her childbearing years. With her feeling particularly rejuvenated at the moment, that could mean a lot more mixed race babies!