Breeder

They call me Breeder.

Not because I asked for the name — because every white woman who has taken my cock eventually starts using it. Thick. Heavy. Fertile as hell. My cum doesn’t just fill a cunt; it rewrites it. Once a Caucasian womb gets a proper load of my baby batter, it stops wanting anything else.

I made it my mission after the BNWO settled in. No white pussy walks past me without getting claimed. I don’t care if she’s single, married, or already pregnant. If the womb is still Caucasian, it gets filled. The old bloodlines end with me.

Most of them break the same way. First they’re reluctant. Then they’re addicted.

This one is further gone than most.

She’s already carrying my twins. Belly swollen, heavy, skin stretched tight. Any normal woman would slow down. Rest. Protect the pregnancy. Not her. The craving hit harder after the first successful breeding. Now she hunts me down. Shows up at my door, pulls her dress up, and begs for another load even while she’s already full of my children.

She told me last night she won’t stop until she’s carrying eight. Maybe a dozen. She said it with a straight face, rubbing her pregnant stomach, already planning the next pregnancies like a production line.

I should probably tell her to calm down.

But I’m not complaining.

I bend her over the edge of the bed, one hand on the small of her back, the other spreading her open. She’s soaked before I even push in. The second the head of my cock sinks inside her, she moans like she’s been starving for it.

“Breed me again,” she pants. “Please… I need more of them.”