It's Just a Matter of Breeding

Be advised this story contains elements of incest, interracial coupling, pregnancy, some non-consent.

"It's Just a Matter of Breeding" is a reworking of my story "A Matter of Breeding." Not sure what the specific difficulty was in initially getting "A Matter of Breeding" published, but I hope you enjoy the enhanced story.

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My name is Dilcy Lee Reid. I grew up in Louisiana, a slave on the Reid Plantation with my Mama Clarice and Johnnie, the man I'd always known as my Daddy. Though our lives weren't easy, we were together, and Masta Reid was a reasonably kind man who was fair and didn't beat or abuse his slaves the way some did. To his credit, Masta Reid unlike other slave owners defied the law and taught some of his slaves to read, write and cipher. He utilized these slaves in privileged positions on the Plantation. My Mama and I were fortunate enough to be taught these things and to take advantage of the benefits that came from working in the Main House.

I'll never forget the morning I awoke to the sight of my Mama putting my few possessions into a tattered little bundle. I sat up in bed and stared at her as she walked around the small cabin softly crying.

"Mama . . . Mama, what's wrong," I asked anxiously, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"You're going to be leaving here baby. You're going to move to the Brennan place, and you're going to be there helping Miss Brennan. You'll be taking care of her and helping wherever needed in the Main House," Mama said, her eyes averting mine.

"Mama, no! I don't want to leave you."

"Shhhh . . . stop Dilcy. You're not a little girl anymore; you're old enough to know that we don't have a say in what we do or where Masta Reid sends us. Now stop your crying. There's nothing to be scared of. I want you to get up, wash up good and get on in here for some breakfast. You need to be out front when Masta Brennan is ready to leave."

*****

I stood on the dirt road in front of our cabin nervously shifting from one foot to the other while I waited for Masta Brennan. I gasped and held my breath when I saw the wagon coming and recognized the large white man seated on the bench next to the burly black driver. Big, hard-bodied with thick dark blonde hair, steely blue eyes, and an angular but handsome face. He was the same man who had come to the cabin last night and told Johnnie and me to leave while he visited with Mama. I could see the suppressed anger on Johnnie's face when he got up and left the cabin. Johnnie took my arm and we walked a little way down the quiet moonlit road finally stopping under an old pine tree. Johnnie lit his pipe and silently smoked it; looking up into his dark, craggy face, I could see tears in his eyes.

After about an hour or so, the cabin door opened and the big white man came out adjusting his pants. He said something to Mama, and as Mama stood in the doorway watching, the man reluctantly turned and walked away.

When he passed Johnnie and me, he stopped.

"So you're Dilcy?" he said, his blue eyes bright as he looked at my small youthful breasts straining against the fabric of the too small dress I had squeezed into.

"How old are you girl?"

"Just turned eighteen suh," I said with my head down and a slight tremble in my voice.

He stared at me for what seemed a moment too long before he mumbled something to himself, mounted his horse, and headed off down the road toward the Main House.

Masta Jeremiah Brennan was the owner of "Weeping Willows" a large and prosperous plantation twenty miles to the west of Masta Reid's place, known in the area as simply "The Reid Plantation." Weeping Willows' fame had come from cotton and the breeding of some of the best-thoroughbred horses in this part of the state. As important, but not spoken about in mixed society was to a lesser extent the deplorable business of slave breeding. Masta Brennan bred his strong young bucks at their full potency to fertile, nubile young slave women for profit, much as he bred his prize horses.

When the wagon pulled up, I clambered in the back and took a seat between the many boxes and rucksacks of supplies, frantically waving to my Mama and Johnnie as the wagon pulled away. It took all of that day before we reached Weeping Willows. About halfway there, we stopped at a small pond to refresh ourselves and eat a light meal of cornbread and buttermilk. The day was hot, and thinking I was out of sight of Masta and his driver, I stripped out of my clothes and dove into the cool water for a quick swim, unaware that Masta Brennan was watching and appraising my body as I innocently played and cavorted, unknowingly on full display.

*****

Raised in the Main House on the Reid Plantation all I knew was serving my Mistress and taking care of the house. I routinely tended the vegetable and flower gardens behind the kitchen, but I had never worked in the fields or anywhere else outside. My responsibilities at Weeping Willows seemed simple enough; meeting the Mistress' needs, tending to her clothing, helping to clean and maintain her rooms and the house, things I was familiar with and good at. Though brought here to be the personal slave of Miss Anne, Masta Brennan's wife, I knew about the other activities that took place at Weeping Willows, and the shadow of the breeding shed was always at the back of my mind.

Time slowly moved on and before I realized it, a year had passed, and I was approaching my nineteenth birthday. In just that short time, I had gone from a gangly girl to an attractive young woman. Physically I was what white folks called mulatto, a warm pale honey coloring that the slaves often in a derogatory way described as "light, nearly white." I stood about 5'5", maybe 110 pounds, long, wavy dark blond hair, full pouty lips and large, clear, icy blue eyes. I had grown into a beautiful, desirable woman with shapely legs, well-proportioned hips and ass, small waist, and firm, full breasts. My physical appearance was a double-edged sword; on the one hand, Masta was proud of my attractiveness and desirability because it enhanced my value. On the other hand, to safeguard my virginity and child birthing potential, Masta was adamant about my staying out of sight when male guests or buyers were in the house, and I was often regulated to the kitchen or the upstairs living quarters.

Miss Anne, who was in sickly health during this time, had been indifferent to my presence at first, but over time, as I grew older and my body and appearance began to change so did her attitude toward me. It was obvious there had been frequent episodes of race mixing in my background, and soon enough she became aware of the open secret among the house slaves that my daddy had been a rich white man, which attested to the color and texture of my hair and the blue eyes. I honestly felt that she disliked me because of this.

Miss Anne eventually discovered that Masta Brennan was my daddy, though that discovery was inevitable considering the striking physical resemblance between Masta and me. Miss Anne was also mistakenly convinced that Masta was indulging in incestuous physical intimacies with me. The thought of her husband having sex with a slave, let alone his daughter disgusted her. Making matters worse was the fact that Masta had stopped having relations with Miss Anne.

Their fighting and her accusations about his supposed incestuous inclinations were constant. One night following a long day during which angry words were loudly exchanged between Masta and Miss Anne, Masta mounted his horse and rode off. Miss Anne came storming into my room at the rear of the kitchen and ordered me to get out of my clothes and lay down on the bed. Obediently I stretched out on the bed and taking four short pieces of rope Miss Anne tied me spread eagle to my be. Tying the pieces of rope around my wrists and ankles, she secured me to the corners of the bed so I couldn't move. I'll never forget how she looked at me, with hate, jealousy and perhaps envy reflected in her eyes. Miss Anne said nothing to me when she roughly inserted her finger inside me and began to move it around as if probing for something. At one point, she pushed hard, making me wince in pain; she stopped and withdrew her finger satisfied with whatever she was doing.

I lay there puzzled and frightened by what had just happened, but thankfully it was over or so I thought. Miss Anne turned back to me and inserting her finger again, with her thumb began rubbing my little pink nub until it was swollen and hard. Afraid to protest or object I could only squirm and then involuntarily moan as I experienced for the first time, a hot flush spread through my private area. With me trembling on the bed, Miss Anne untied me and left the room.

It was only after Masta Brennan and I eventually became intimate that he explained what she had done that day. Since I had come there, she had been plagued with the idea that Masta was fucking me, it wasn't true (at least not then), but the thought that he might be, was driving her crazy and her goal that day was to find out if I were still a virgin.

*****

Miss Anne's attentions increased perversely. Because of my duties, it was not unusual for Miss Anne and me to be alone, with her often in a state of undress. Though I knew Miss Anne did not have good feelings toward me, she none the less would take these opportunities to become sexually intimate with me, and because I was of a submissive temperament, I acquiesced to her.

I remember one incident that was particularly unnerving. Masta was away on a business trip when Miss Anne called me into her room to assist her while she bathed. After I had filled the old copper tub, Miss Anne let her robe slip to the floor and pool around her feet. Stepping into the tub, she sat down and let the water cover her breast while she leaned back and soaked. After about ten minutes, she called me over to wash her. Kneeling beside the tub, I washed her back, her chest, her arms and reluctantly between her legs. Miss Anne moaned and put her hand on top of mine applying more pressure to her clit until she began to buck and hump my hand as she orgasmed in the warm water. I looked down and could see that the front of my bodice was soaked with water and my nipples hard like small pebbles.

"Stand over here near the side of the tub and lift your skirt," she said with authority. When I didn't move, she repeated herself, this time in a more threatening tone.

"Get over here and hold your skirt up, you black bitch."

This time I did as she said and lifted my skirt. I stood there with my skirt gathered up in my arms, exposing myself to her, my pussy strangely aroused and growing wet, my clit swollen and aching. A shiver ran through me when I felt a warm, moist pressure swipe across my clit.

Oh my God! Miss Anne had her mouth on my clit, her tongue eagerly lapping and poking between my pussy lips. My legs began to quiver.

"Does he do that to you? Does your Daddy lick you like this?" She asked sarcastically.

I stood there . . .

With one hand, Miss Anne massaged my clit until it was so engorged it peeped out from its protective hood. With the other, she parted my moist puffy lips and stuck her tongue as far as she could between the lips and began to thrust it in and out. I felt her hands encircle my hips to press me tightly to her mouth and . . . and I couldn't help a scream escaping when I dropped to my knees as an orgasm coursed through me in hot, disturbing waves.

I rocked back on my knees, trying to regain my composure when Miss Anne got out of the tub and dripping water stretched out on the rug in front of the huge fireplace. She brazenly rolled onto her back, opened her legs and looking at me began to masturbate. I silently watched her, frozen in place, mesmerized by what she was doing, strangely excited and yet repulsed.

I felt sorry for her . . . she still loved him.

Despite her protests to the contrary, from the arguing and shouting voices that increasingly filled the upstairs hallways and sent the house slaves scurrying, it was apparent she still loved him and wanted him. Even though she believed Masta was having sex with me, she wanted him. Her fondling me, making me cum for her was her way of maybe getting back at Masta, using what was his.

I suspect the Masta had learned about Miss Anne's intimacies with me, and though he did not confront her, it was an increasingly tense and difficult time at the Brennan Plantation. Masta sought relief and solace in other places. On those evenings when he would mount his horse and ride away, he was most likely heading for the warm, comforting embrace of one of his married female neighbors. Notwithstanding his occasional indiscretions with the good ladies in the area, Masta Brennan seemed particularly careful not to embarrass Miss Anne by flaunting his affairs.

As life would have it, Miss Anne's health worsened and she died of consumption within the year. Of course, Masta was saddened and reclusive, but after a respectable period of mourning, he found himself free to indulge his male proclivities without concern for propriety or convention for an occasional attractive black slave or neighboring white lady alike.

*****

I had known Masta for a while now and had become increasingly aware, particularly after his wife's death of how he sometimes leered at me or would touch me when he thought others weren't looking. Adding to this unease was the fact that after Miss Anne's death, Masta Brennan's younger brother Phillip began visiting more frequently and though married, his wife seldom accompanied him during these visits.

I didn't like Masta Phillip. I think it was the way he stared at me with that hungry, predatory look on his face that made me uncomfortable. It was common knowledge (at least amongst the house slaves) that he and Miss Ann had been having relations before she fell ill and it was also commonly known that he spent quite a bit of time in the slave quarters. During these visits (whether his wife was with him or not) if he spotted a comely slave who interested him, he thought nothing of forcing himself on her; after all, he was the Masta's brother.

Sophie knew his character and warned me to stay clear of Masta Phillip, but through my own carelessness, once or twice he had caught me alone and made me take him in my mouth or jerk him with my hand until he came. I know he would have taken me if not for his fear of Masta Brennan. I think the Masta would have beaten any man to within an inch of their life if they had tried to have sex with me. Masta was no innocent as far as breeding his slaves, but he had other things in mind for me. He would never have allowed a black slave or another white man for that matter to touch me, not even his brother.

Though Masta Brennan had not yet begun to pay me nightly visits, his interest in me was increasing and becoming more blatant and demanding, often unmindful of who might see him. The rumors had started almost from the day of my arrival. Whispers and finger pointing that would suddenly stop when I came into the room. Because of the bits and pieces of gossip I would hear, I tried to stay away from Masta Brennan; you see . . . the rumors were that Masta Brennan was my daddy.

"Look at her yellow hair and them funny eyes, they just like his. That's his seed just as sure as I'm standing here, Mazie, one of the cooks said in a low voice to the others grouped around her. You remember when her Mama, Clarice was here don't you? Masta's daddy had broken her in when she was as old as that young'un Dilcy is. I remember when the young Masta came home from college that summer and saw her, he couldn't keep that big white dick out'ta her. They didn't know about each other, but he and his daddy were both having sex with her, and when the daddy found out they had a big fight over her one night and his daddy sent Clarice over to the Reid Plantation."

With a gurgling laugh, Mazie added, "that didn't stop the young Masta though. Once a week he'd ride that twenty miles to the Reid place just to fuck her; probably would have gone up there more often if he could have. The boy wanted her bad, couldn't help his self. He'd spend a day or two with her, filling her with his cum before returning home weak and drained. By the time he went back to school, that girl Clarice was knocked up with Dilcy."

Mazie began to laugh again so hard her eyes started to water up. "Hell, this place would have been full of the young Masta's yellow-haired, blue-eyed almost white pickaninnies if Dilcy's Mama had stayed here."

I held my breath in disbelief and quietly backed out of the room.

*****

Sundays were typically quiet, leisurely days. After church, sometimes Masta Brennan would visit with friends until the late afternoon, and either stay for supper at their place or invite them back to Weeping Willows for Repass; On Sundays, most of the slaves would be free of work and in their cabins or the quarters. On this particular Sunday, Masta decided to invite everyone back to Weeping Willows for their evening meal. Immediately after service, with me in tow, we returned home so that I could help our cook Sophie with the meal preparation

Masta Brennan seated me in the surrey and as we rode home, he kept stealing glances at me. After reaching Weeping Willows, Masta pulled the surrey into the barn and helped me down. When I turned to go toward the house, he caught my arm and spun me around. Surprised, I said nothing when he reached up and began to unbutton the bodice of my dress.

"You remind me of your Mama when she was your age," he said as he undid the last button.

"Perfect . . . perfect," Masta said stroking his fingers over my breast. He seemed fascinated by my large, dark areolas and the even darker nipples against my pale breasts. I stood frozen as he caressed my breast, running his fingers over my nipples until they stood hard and aroused. Masta Brennan cupped my breast in his hand and sucked a hard, brown nipple into his mouth closing his eyes as he sucked on it, and then licked first one and then the other nipple.

Masta moved his other hand down the front of my skirt and began lightly rubbing my clit through the fabric of the skirt. After a few seconds of my trying to squirm away from him, he slipped his hand under the skirt and let his fingers slide between my pussy lips.

"Damn, your pussy is wet already, Dilcy."

"Oh Masta Brennan, please, please stop," I whined in embarrassment.

"Stop squirming, girl," he said in an impatient voice.

"I want you to understand one thing Dilcy. I can do what I want, when I want, where I want. You belong to me, he said pressing his finger inside me to emphasize his point. Now get up to the house and help Sophie get ready for my guests."

*****

My days fell into a predictable pattern of working in and around the Main House during the day and in the evenings visiting with a new friend named Ulysses. Ulysses was a field hand and looked down on by those in the house, but I didn't care; I liked him. We would often go walking along the path at night pausing in a secluded place and stretching out on the soft grass to kiss and play with each other. Unfortunately, trouble was brewing.

After being alerted by one of the other house slaves, one night Masta Brennan followed me when I left the house and caught me in the woods with the young buck, Ulysses. I was on my knees with his long, black cock in my mouth. There in the cool shadows of the tall pine trees, Masta had watched. He was angered, aroused and disgusted all at the same time. Months later the subject of Ulysses had come up and Masta told me how angry he had been, how as he watched Ulysses and me, his groin had tightened and he could feel cum roiling in his balls each time my small mouth encircled Ulysses' swollen cockhead. Even in the moonlight, the dark skin of Ulysses' cock contrasted against the whiteness of my mouth. Shirtless, his hard biceps bulged as he entangled his large black hands in my hair and held my mouth to his cock. In my inexperience and excitement, I groaned at the sensation of his long, thick member filling my mouth and coaxing my throat open.