Sophia's Confession: “I, Too, Want To Be Blacked & Bred!”

I want a black lover, like the one my daughter, Ollie, has, and, if I’m to be honest. I would love it if my supposed lover would get me pregnant like her.

My daughter called me on a Wednesday in the second week of June, letting me know she had some great news she wanted to share with me. As any loving mother would do, I inquired what it was about; Ollie didn’t say. I pressed on: was it good news or bad news . . . or was it some type of news that she wanted my counsel? Ollie said she would drop by on the weekend to tell me; she wanted me to be home to hear it from her instead of over the phone. I said no problem, I’ll be looking forward to seeing her, then we hung up. I went about my day and tried not to think seriously about whatever Ollie needed to share with me. The weekend was coming, and I was bound to find out then.

Ollie called on Saturday morning to know when I would be home. I told her to come by anytime, I had no plans to go anywhere. I am 38 years old, and have been divorced from Ollie’s dad for nearly a decade. Ollie had turned 20 several months ago, and had begun her college life the previous year. Her dad had remarried while I’ve stayed single since. That news was about to turn drastic when Ollie arrived later that afternoon.

Ollie arrived at my home at 12:24 p.m., and she wasn’t alone. A young black man came with her; she introduced him as Sean, her boyfriend. I offered them drinks, but Ollie declined; I was soon to realise why. They held hands like two love birds, smiling and bubbling with excitement. I sat across from them and asked what news she needed to share. Ollie presented me with a black-and-white photo of her recent ultrasound scan from two days ago. My lips suddenly felt dry.

“Ollie, dear, is this what I think it is?”

She nodded. “It is, mom; you’re going to be a grandmother!”

Ollie burst into tears, as did I. She came over and hugged me; I held the ultrasound photo before my face, too stunned to say anything. I didn’t want to believe this was happening, yet it was: my daughter was pregnant, and I was about to become a grandmother. Could you believe that?

“Congratulations are well in order,” I said. “Oh my God, this is truly amazing news.” 

I returned to the kitchen to fetch myself a beer from the fridge; at that moment, I needed it more than ever. I took a big swig and wiped beer foam from my lips while I took stock of the situation. My God, I was about to become a grandma! Not like I wasn’t happy about it–what right-thinking woman wouldn’t? But never did I figure it would happen like this. I’d always pictured Ollie graduating from college, securing a job, then a handsome gentleman, get married, and then do the whole she-bang.  To do it like that felt like someone swiped my feet off the floor.

I asked Ollie if she had informed her dad yet. She said would handle that tomorrow, but wanted me to hear the news first. Ollie then properly introduced me to her boyfriend, Sean. They had been dating for several months. He confessed that he too had been astounded when Ollie presented the news to him, but said he was willing to do right by her and by with her through the thick and thin. 

Seeing them together felt somewhat awkward yet revealing. I realised my daughter had truly come of age. Ollie was becoming a woman . . . whereas me, what was I becoming?

Mid-life crisis is a bitch, and it dawned on me that I was trapped in one and never realised it until my daughter’s pregnancy brought clarity to my present predicament. My loneliness was a blinking orange light that I’d ignored for the longest time, and now it had turned red and I didn’t know what to do.

I lay in bed hours after Ollie and her boyfriend left, contemplating my livelihood since my divorce till present. Ollie’s Dad and I still communicate, but our conversation had grown perfunctory over the years; months would go by before I’d pick up the phone to call him, and often when I did, the talk seldom progressed beyond asking how each other was doing. Our divorce had been amicable. He had invited me to his second wedding, though I’d politely declined. I have dated since, but none progressed beyond several months. My last relationship ended during early spring; it had lasted the previous winter before fizzling out. I had grown tired of fucking my dildo; I needed a man in my bed, in my life.

I need to find myself a long-term lover who would occupy my bedroom, including my home, and treat it like his. 

I want a black lover, like the one my daughter, Ollie, has, and, if I’m to be honest.  I would love it if my supposed lover would get me pregnant like her.

It sounds crazy, demented like something culled out of a fantastic daydream, I know, but that was the immediate thought that fell out of my head as I lay in bed moaning about my problems. Life was moving faster than I could imagine. Now my daughter is becoming a woman before my eyes, and next thing I’ll be turning 40, single, lonesome, and starved of sex.

Oh gosh, how I fucking miss sex.

It’s bad enough that I sometimes recall moments of sexual pleasure with my ex-husband. Days when we had nobody aside from each other, back when we occupied a square-shaped loft, working hours and saving money to purchase our first home. Back then the thought of Ollie was but a dream. We would have sex in every corner of that loft. Sometimes the room stank for days of our sex. Those were fun times. I cannot bring those days back, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit down and do nothing. 

If anything, realising my daughter was carrying her lover’s baby inside her was the abrupt wake-up call I’ve been expecting since. I need to find myself a long-term lover who would occupy my bedroom, including my home, and treat it like his. 

I am willing to make myself as submissive as possible to welcome any would-be lover.

I will cook, clean, mend, and cherish his masculine presence, including his absence whenever he heads out to work, reassured that he would return hours later into my waiting arms.

And if it’s sex, I am more than willing to do anything to keep my would-be lover content and happy. I wouldn’t mind sucking his cock at any hour of the day–first thing in the morning and last thing before going to bed. I wouldn’t mind if he sticks his cock inside my mouth and then falls asleep beside me; I’ll still suck that cock till it cums. 

I wasn’t lying about wanting to get pregnant again. I’ve always thought that I owe Ollie another sibling, regardless of what the alleged age gap would be. I would love to find a handsome black man for a lover and partner, let me fuck me and own me and use me however and whenever he wants, and carry his seed in my pussy until my tummy gets fat. I’m still of age; I’m willing to go the distance.

The question now is how do I find that special someone?