The breeding of my French slut Claire

As soon as Naomi stood up, Claire lay flat on her back, spreading her legs wide to better accommodate my throbbing meat. Foreplay was not needed; Claire's pussy was sopping wet from her licking session with Naomi. Seeing those glistening, moist, open labia, I quickly aligned my cock up in front of her shiny, damp opening, and in one slow push, I sank balls deep inside her ready French cunt. She came right away on my invading cock, her orgasm flooding her tight tunnel. I kept my cock still at the deepest point so she could recover a little bit, her pussy oversensitive from her first orgasm with me.

As I had suspected earlier, it would be Claire who was fucking me, rather than the other way around. Once her orgasm had faded away, she nodded, giving me the order to breed her. I pulled back, leaving only the red head inside her, and slowly started fucking that tight French pussy. Claire hadn’t told me, but she was probably either fertile today or tomorrow, as far as she could count back. Her gut feeling told her it was today, since she had been horny the entire time, lusting for cock.

Why not combine both, she thought, quenching her French pussy's thirst for hot cum and getting some lovely hot seed pumped into her cervix, where her little egg was waiting? She hoped her baby would be a girl so he could fuck her too, once she was old enough.

She didn’t know yet if she would stay here or not, but if she decided to have her baby in France, and no later than her 18th birthday, her daughter and she would go on a little safari trip. Show her young daughter the world. And other things. Big things.

Claire would offer her daughter's young snatch to be bred by a black cock, and she would make sure her daughter got knocked up by holding her arms pinned down on a cheap mattress herself.

Securing her young daughter a lovely black baby bump. That’s what mommies are for, aren't they?

Claire had no troubles with my girth. Her experienced cunt took me in all the way with ease, her contracting walls pulling my phallus as deep as possible with each thrust and at the same time milking it, making sure my seed would safely reach her ready egg. Her pelvis answered my thrusts by lifting itself each time, making the deepest connection. To make sure I couldn’t pull out, she clamped her legs around my hips, assisting my shoves by pulling me deeper. Her nails caressed the sides of my torso, softly caressing and scratching it, telling me to keep fucking her just like we were doing.

The image captures her perfectly—that heavy, full-bellied French voluptuousness, the dark hair, and the calm, knowing look of a woman who has done this a hundred times and knows exactly what her body does to a man.

That's the Claire who was now pinned beneath me—and the moment my weight settled over her, the whole room went loud.

She took me like a woman who'd been built for it. My girth never made her flinch. Her cunt simply swallowed me, stretched and molded around my shaft like it had been cast to my exact measurements, and once I was buried to the root, she squeezed down with a long, deliberate pulse that traveled from the lips to the tip—first a tight ring at the entrance clamping the base of my cock, then a second, deeper wave rippling along my length, then the soft wet clutch of her cervix kissing the head. It felt like being handled. Being read.

"Fuck," I grunted, the word punched out of me before I could stop it. " Fuck, Claire—"

She laughed, low and breathy, and rolled her hips up into me. "I know."

Because that's what she was doing. Reading my cock.

Her hips had learned the rhythm before mine caught up. Every time I drove in, her pelvis tilted up to meet me at the perfect angle, canting so I slid along the ridge of her front wall instead of punching blind. Every time I pulled back, she followed, refusing to let more than the head slip free before her walls sucked me back in. She was steering me. This was never a breeding session, so much less a collection—and Claire was holding the cup.

"Ahh—putain," she gasped as I bottomed out again, her nails finding my ribs. "There. Right there. Stay there."

"Slower?" I panted.

"Slower," she confirmed, and it wasn't a plea for mercy; it was an order for precision. "Deep. Slow. Put it in me."

So I gave her slow, deep strokes—each one landing with a wet slap of skin on skin, each one pressing the head flush against the mouth of her womb where her little egg was waiting. She wanted every push to be a delivery. She wanted me to feel exactly where I was supposed to end up.

And she milked me.

God, she milked me. Those walls went to work like they had a job, contracting in slow, squeezing bands, alternating pressure, hauling the length of me in and wringing it on the way out. With her legs locked around my hips, she had full command of depth—pulling me deeper with her calves, holding me at the bottom when she wanted me to stay, releasing only when she was ready for the next. My balls swung heavy and slapped her ass on every return, wet and loud, smack — smack — smack.

"Oui—like that," she moaned, dragging her nails down my flanks, leaving pale lines. "Harder at the end. Harder when you go deep. Oui, oui—ahh!"

I sped up. Gave her what she asked for—a deep grinding slam at the end of every stroke, grinding the head into her front wall, and she cried out each time, that breathy French moan climbing higher, cracking apart into something rougher and less composed. "Aaah—ah—ahh, putain, putain—"

"You feel that?" I growled against her throat.

"Oui—feel everything," she gasped, almost smug even now, watching my face through half-closed eyes. "That is not luck. That is practice."

She wasn't wrong. A younger woman fucks back. Claire harvests. She knew when to clamp and when to open, when to let me sink and when to squeeze the base of me hard enough that I had to grit my teeth just to hold on. She had me fighting for composure while she lay there, legs spread wide, belly heaving, taking my thick cock all the way with that same cool expression from the photograph—right up until her mouth fell open and the coolness broke.

Because her body betrayed her too. Every squeeze pulled another gush of wetness out of her, and the sound between us turned sloppy and filthy, schlick — schlick — schlick over the slap of our skin. She came again—smaller, riding the back of the first—her cunt fluttering in fast little pulses, her thighs shaking around my ears, a long broken "hhaaah—ohh—ohh—" spilling out of her.

"Merde—I'm coming, I'm coming—" she whimpered, and then clamped down hard, wringing me, refusing to let me spill until she'd finished using me.

"Fuck—Claire, I'm going to—"

"Not yet," she breathed, gripping me. "Not yet. Hold it. Hold it inside me."

I groaned loudly, a raw guttural sound. I couldn't keep in, and she rewarded it with a hard squeeze. "That's it," she purred. "You sound so good. Make it last. The longer you hold, the more of it gets in."

So I held. Sweat dripped off my chest onto her breasts, my breath came in rough grunts against her neck—"unh—unh—unh"—matching every deep slam, and she answered me with her own, "ah—ah—ah," a breathless counterpoint, nails raking up my back, legs pulling me in, both of us loud and sloppy and completely lost in the wet sound of me fucking that tight French pussy.

She was thinking like a breeder now. Like a woman whose only goal was to have that load planted as deep as it would go and held there, warm, working. Her cunt did everything a cunt could do to guarantee it—gripping, milking, massaging my shaft from root to tip, and coaxing the cum up out of me one stroke at a time.

She wasn't taking my cock. She was drawing it out of me.

And this experienced, insatiable French whore of mine—this woman who could have been a high-class whore and probably was—was very, very good at her work.

"Come for me," she whispered at last, clamping down one final time, her heels digging into the small of my back, dragging me to the deepest point and locking me there. "Come in, me. Fill your French cunt."

And I did.

It hit me like a fist. The first rope punched out of me deep inside her, and the second was already behind it before the first had finished—hot, thick, flooding that tight French cunt right where she'd locked me, right against the mouth of her womb where her little egg was waiting. She felt it the instant it landed.

"Ohh—putain!" she screamed, head thrown back, throat bared, the sound ripping out of her loud enough to bounce off the walls. "Oui! Oui! I feel it—I feel your hot seed!"

Her cunt clamped down around me and started pulling, greedy and rhythmic, wringing my shaft in long, slow strokes like she meant to drag every last drop out of me and swallow it up into her. Squeeze—release—squeeze. Milking me through my own orgasm, refusing to waste a single pulse. I was still coming, and she was already working to make sure it took.

"Fuck—fuck, Claire—" I groaned into her neck, hips stuttering, grinding myself as deep as I could go, pushing the load in with short little shoves while her walls rippled and fluttered around me.

"Fill me—fill me, putain—" she panted, legs locked iron-tight around my hips, heels digging into my back, holding me buried. "Don't move. Don't you dare move."

She came again.

This one was big. The biggest of the night. It rolled up out of her and broke all at once—a long, ragged, high moan that turned into a shout, "Ahh—ahh—AHH!" Her whole body arching off the mattress beneath me, her belly pressed to mine, her breasts crushed against my chest, her pussy gripping me in fast, violent pulses while she squirted wet heat around the base of my cock. Her nails raked down my back hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave marks. She shook. Her voice cracked in the middle of a word and came out as a sob.

"Ohh, mon Dieu—ohh—oui, oui, oui—"

Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, and she was breathing in short, broken gasps. When she finally got the words out, they came low and fierce, straight into my ear:

"Make me a mama, you bastard."

I stayed buried. Her cunt kept pulsing around me in slow aftershocks, swallowing, contracting, and keeping every drop sealed in tight against her cervix. Warm. Held. Working. She could feel me softening inside her, and she squeezed anyway, one last time, dragging it out, unwilling to let a single thing slip.

"Là," she breathed, eyes still shut, a small satisfied smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "There. That's better."

I laughed, hoarse, forehead dropped to her shoulder. "Bastard?"

"Oui." She ran her nails down my spine, slow now, gentle. "The best kind."

She lay still under me for a long while, letting the weight of me keep it all in—legs still hooked loosely around my hips, one hand absently stroking the back of my neck, her belly rising and falling under my chest. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and certain, like she was confirming something she'd already decided.

"Stay in me a while longer," she whispered. "Give it time to find her."

To be continued.