Breed Me
High school sweethearts. Draft night. One ask: go half on a baby.
⚠️ Content warning: Adult themes and explicit sexual content (NSFW). 18+ only. Reader discretion advised.
They were a pair before anyone learned to drive. Georgia in a white bow at the top of the pyramid, Franklin under Friday-night lights, reading coverages like sheet music. The town called them inevitable. She called him “my first-round,” long before there were scouts in the bleachers. Friday nights tasted like cold aluminum stands and November air; pom-poms thumped the same rhythm as the drumline, and the leather-snap of the football rode the cut‑grass smell all the way to the parking lot.
Senior year rushed by in a slow-motion reel—pep rallies, bus rides, fast food after away games, his arm around her shoulders in the diner booth. When the colleges came calling, she taped his acceptance letters to her bedroom wall in a tidy grid. He picked a program with a fight song she learned in an afternoon. When he committed, she filed her own application to the same school—deadlines mapped, essay polished, the fight song already in her head. Bus rides hummed with diesel and whispered gossip; vinyl seats stuck to bare knees; after away games the diner rang with clattering plates, salt and grease perfuming the booth while his arm warmed her shoulders.
The first campus had sunlight and brick, the second had stadium shadows and a coach who swore he could fix Franklin’s footwork. People whispered about loyalty and leverage; Georgia packed boxes. Cardboard rasped under tape; new keys clicked in unfamiliar locks; the film room hummed with fluorescent lights and the thin paper smell of play sheets while a quiet Starbucks steamed cinnamon and espresso into their early mornings. She learned the best routes between libraries and training tables, the way to stack his protein containers like nesting dolls. When he doubted, she didn’t argue—she showed up. Front row. Every time.
Then came the hit. One moment he was a metronome; the next he was a statue on the turf, breath stuck somewhere between his chest and the sky. Rehab turned months into a long hallway with fluorescent lights. Antiseptic lifted in the air; ice cracked in plastic bags; resistance bands snapped and sang; the steady whirr of treadmills underscored her voice reading chapters he’d missed. Georgia walked it with him, counting reps, reading out loud from textbooks so he wouldn’t fall behind. She learned the names of muscles that hurt and the ice schedule that helped. People called it sacrifice. Georgia called it Tuesday.
By the time his senior season arrived, Franklin moved like a song he knew by heart. He didn’t chase the game; it came to him. Numbers stacked up: yards, touchdowns, a streak of Saturdays that smelled like cut grass and victory Gatorade. The snap popped like a starting pistol; sunscreen and popcorn drifted on warm breezes; the crowd’s roar climbed like weather rolling in. When the Heisman cameras found other faces, Georgia clapped anyway—harder than anyone—because the trophy was a headline and Franklin was the story.
Draft night was polished chaos: a suit that fit just right, a tie she’d ironed twice, a room thick with breath and hope. Camera strobes blinked; champagne hissed as corks eased free; the ballroom AC ran a crisp chill over wool and skin. When “twenty-fourth pick” wrapped around his name, the world went metallic and loud. He hugged everyone, then found her eyes. In that split second—confetti, camera flashes, a future sprinting toward them—Georgia saw the same kid who’d asked her to the homecoming dance with a poster that said “Run With Me.”
For a heartbeat he only saw her. The soft fall of her blonde hair, sunlit even under hotel bulbs. Skin luminous against the white linens, a clean line of white lacquer on her nails and toes—small, sure choices that felt like her. The athlete lived in her posture: steady shoulders, strong legs from years of pyramids and tumbling, ease in the way she took up space without apology. She wore a half-smile that said she’d been betting on him since homecoming, and eyes that didn’t blink under the bright lights. Beauty, yes—but more than that, a calm certainty that he’d been running toward all along.
By the time the parties emptied and the interviews cooled, they were alone in the hotel suite. The elevator ding still echoed in their ears; city sirens braided with a distant bass from another floor; the carpet cushioned every step, and the vented air whispered along the windows. The city hummed below; the floor still carried the weight of all those congratulations. Franklin stood there in his crisp shirt, cufflinks still on, like he hadn’t had the courage to exhale yet.
He did then.
“You were there for everything,” he said, voice low. “Every transfer. Every ice pack. Every long night. And you never once asked for anything back.”
Georgia leaned against the dresser, toes bare on the soft carpet. “You’re dramatic,” she teased, but her smile was warm.
“I mean it.” He stepped closer. The cufflinks clicked together when he folded his hands, a nervous habit that didn’t fit a first-round draft pick; a clean cedar‑citrus cologne rose when he moved, warm skin underneath like sun on leather. “Tell me what you want. I want to give you something that’s yours.”
Georgia took him in like a photograph she knew by heart and was still surprised by. Under the soft hotel light, his deep brown skin held a warm, bronze sheen—every angle catching a little city glow and making him look both eminent and familiar. The suit broadened his shoulders, but it was the small tells that undid her—the tie a hair off-center where she’d straightened it, the faint nick along his chin from that sophomore scramble, wrists bracketed in silver. Quarterback hands, nicked and calloused, worrying the cufflinks as if they were laces; eyes warm under hard light; the left dimple threatening whenever he pretended not to smile. He looked every inch the league’s newest franchise hope and, somehow, still the boy who walked her to class—only steadier, heavier with purpose, the same grit turned into grace.
“My heart?” he offered.
“Already have that.”
“Marry me?” he said, too fast, then laughed at himself. “I’ll buy a ring tomorrow. We’ll do it right.”
“Oh, we will,” she said, crossing to him, smoothing his lapel where the fabric had puckered. “I’ll pick out the ring, and you’ll propose when it’s romantic and the right time.”
He caught her hands. “Then what? Name it. Anything.”
“Anything?” she said, tilting her head.
“Anything.”
Outside, a siren slipped by; somewhere far below, another celebration roared to life and faded. Georgia watched the room’s reflection blur in the window, then turned back to him, all certainty.
“Your timing,” she said softly, “is perfect.”
He blinked. “Perfect?”
She nodded, a small, private smile. “I’m right where I need to be.”
He searched her face, then the question arrived. “What are you saying?”
Georgia moved his hands to her waist, like setting him at the line of scrimmage. “You asked what I want,” she said. “What would make me happiest.”
“Yes.”
“I want us,” she said, “to go half on a baby.”
Franklin’s breath caught, surprise breaking into something bright. The city, the noise, the years of work—suddenly all of it felt like a doorway instead of a destination.
“Tonight?” he asked, half-laughing, half-wondering if he’d heard her right.
She met his eyes, steady as a snap count. “Tonight,” she said, “you, my first-round draft pick, are going to breed me right here and right now.”
He held her for a long moment—a quiet, anchoring hold—before the world narrowed to the soft light of the suite and the certainty in her voice.
Georgia stepped back, a small smile playing at her mouth, and began to undress—slow, deliberate, making a promise of every button and zipper. Fabric whispered over skin; a zipper sang a soft metal line; the room held its breath as she lost everything that wasn’t skin.
She crossed to the bed and climbed onto the cool, white sheets, sinking into the pillows as the city glow painted a soft edge along her. Her hair slid over one shoulder; she let her back find the mattress and drew her knees up, soles pressing into the linen. The white of her manicure flashed as she smoothed a hand down her stomach to rest just above her entrance, fingers splayed. She angled herself with quiet purpose—knees parting, breath even—an unhurried invitation written in posture alone. “Come here,” she whispered, eyes steady on him.
Franklin moved, a slow, deliberate walk to the bed. He didn’t climb on. He knelt at the edge, his hands finding the backs of her thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. The city lights painted his face in bronze and shadow, his eyes dark and fixed on hers. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve always been the most beautiful thing.”
He leaned in, his mouth finding the inside of her knee, a soft, warm press that made her breath catch. His lips traced a slow, wet path upward, his stubble grazing her skin, a delicious friction that tightened something low in her belly. His hands slid up to her hips, holding her steady as his mouth moved higher. He kissed the crease of her thigh, his tongue a hot stripe that made her back arch off the mattress.
“Franklin,” she sighed, her fingers threading into his short, tight curls.
He didn’t answer with words. He answered by pushing her thighs wider, his broad shoulders slotting between them. He looked up at her, his gaze holding hers, and then he lowered his mouth to her.
The first touch of his tongue was a soft, searching probe. A slow, flat lick from the very bottom of her entrance all the way up to the hooded peak of her clit. Georgia’s head fell back, a low moan tearing from her throat. Oh, fuck. His tongue was firm, wet, relentless. He licked into her, tasting her, his nose nudging against her as he explored every fold. He found a rhythm—long, languid strokes that made her hips lift to meet him, then short, rapid flicks right over her clit that made her whimper.
He worked her open with his mouth, his hands sliding under her ass to tilt her up, giving him deeper access. The sounds were obscene, wet and slick, his hungry groans mixing with her sharp cries. He fucked her with his tongue, pushing it inside her, then circling her entrance, then sucking her clit between his lips, pulling gently, making her see stars.
“Your mouth,” she gasped, her heels digging into his back. “God, your fucking mouth.”
He pulled back, his chin glistening. He was breathing hard. As he looked at her, he began to undress. His fingers, those quarterback fingers, worked the cufflinks free with a sharp click-click. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it aside. His shirt followed, buttons popping, revealing the hard, sculpted planes of his chest and stomach, the deep brown skin sheened with a light sweat. He stood to shuck his pants and briefs, and his cock sprang free.
It was a formidable sight, as familiar to her as his smile and still a shock every time. Thick and long, rising from a thatch of dark curls. The shaft was a rich, deep brown, the skin smooth and warm-looking, traced with subtle veins. The head was a darker shade, a smooth, broad crown already glistening with a bead of moisture at the slit. It curved upward slightly, a proud, heavy weight that made her mouth water and her own body clench in anticipation.
He knelt again between her legs, his cock jutting against her inner thigh. He leaned down, taking her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, letting her taste herself on his lips. Then his mouth was back between her legs, his tongue driving her higher, faster. He added a finger, sliding one, then two inside her, crooking them, finding that spot that made her cry out and buck against his face.
She was close, so close, the tension coiling tight and hot. But she pushed at his shoulders. “Wait. Stop.”
He lifted his head immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she panted, propping herself on her elbows. She looked from his wet mouth to his hard cock, then back to his face. Her voice dropped, thick with desire and intent. “As much as I fucking love the way you eat my pussy, Franklin… you can’t put a baby in me that way. I need you to fuck it into me. I need you to breed me right now. No more waiting.”
A raw, possessive sound rumbled from his chest. He moved up her body, covering her, the full, hot length of him pressing against her stomach. He braced himself on his forearms, cradling her face. “Say it again.”
“Breed me,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his. “Fill me up. Get me pregnant. I want it. I want your fucking baby.”
He kissed her, hard and desperate, then reached between them. His hand wrapped around his cock, the broad head nudging against her entrance. He pushed, just an inch, and they both groaned at the stretch, the perfect, tight fit. He held there, his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers.
“Look at me,” he breathed.
She opened her eyes. He pushed deeper, sinking into her with a slow, relentless pressure that stole the air from her lungs. He filled her completely, a deep, stretching burn that melted into pure, liquid heat. He bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, and they both went still, overwhelmed by the connection, by the purpose of it.
“Georgia,” he moaned, her name a prayer.
Then he began to move. A slow, deep withdrawal, then a firm, driving thrust back in. Missionary. The classic, intimate position. But there was nothing casual about it. Every stroke was measured, powerful, aimed deep. His hips pistoned, his balls slapping against her ass with each inward drive. The bed rocked with their rhythm. He watched her face, his own a mask of fierce concentration and pleasure.
“You feel so fucking good,” he gritted out. “So tight around my cock. Taking me so deep.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles. “Deeper. Give it to me deeper.”
He obeyed, shifting his angle, driving into her with sharper, more focused thrusts. Each one jolted through her, lighting up nerves she didn’t know she had. She could feel the thick length of him rubbing inside her, the ridge of his head stroking that perfect, sensitive spot with every pass. Her moans grew louder, less controlled.
After a few minutes of this, he slid to his side, pulling her with him. They were facing each other, her leg hooked over his hip. He pushed back into her from this new angle, and it was different—deeper in a new way, the friction concentrated along a different, exquisite path. He reached between them, his large hand finding her breast, squeezing the full weight of it, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard, aching peak.
“This is how we make our baby,” he murmured against her lips, fucking into her with steady, penetrating strokes. “My cock in your perfect pussy. Planting my seed so deep inside you.”
“Yes,” she hissed, her own hand sliding down to where they were joined, her fingers rubbing furious circles over her clit as he fucked her. The dual stimulation was too much, too good. The pressure built, a storm gathering in her core. “Franklin, I’m gonna… I’m gonna come.”
“Come with me,” he demanded, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing their rhythm. “Come on my cock. Then take my come. Take all of it.”
It was the command in his voice that pushed her over. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, seizing wave that clenched around his driving length, milking him, pulling the climax from him. With a guttural shout, he buried himself to the hilt and pulsed inside her. She felt it—the hot, sudden rush of his release, jetting deep into her womb in thick, rhythmic spurts. He held himself there, grinding gently as he emptied himself, his body shuddering against hers.
They lay tangled, breathing in ragged unison. After a long moment, he started to soften, to slip from her. She clamped her muscles around him, holding him in.
“Not yet,” she whispered, a sly, exhausted smile on her face. She reached down, feeling the wet, sticky evidence of his release already leaking from her. She brought her fingers to his lips. “That was a fucking touchdown. But let’s make sure. Get that extra point.”
He laughed, a breathless, amazed sound, and sucked her fingers clean. “Two-point conversion?”
“Read the playbook,” she murmured, rolling to face the other way. On her side, she lifted one knee high, opening for him—an athlete’s invitation. He took in the length of her, the slick leak flowing between her thighs, the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath.
He understood. He moved, slotting himself, straddling her bottom leg. He guided his cock, already hardening again from the sight of her slick, used pussy and the tight pucker of her asshole, then aimed for her entrance. He pushed in, a smooth, full re-entry that made her cry out. This position was relentless. He could fuck into her at a brutal, deep angle, her body a taut wishbone beneath him. He pressed a kiss to her calf; one hand held her raised leg while the other anchored her hip, driving with deliberate, claiming strokes—as if he could already feel their future stirring under his palm.
“You’re gonna be so fucking pregnant,” he growled in her ear, his thrusts becoming hard, pounding drives. “My come’s gonna be dripping out of you for days. Everyone’s gonna know I bred you.”
The vulgarity, the possessiveness, the raw biological truth of it made her climax again, a sharper, more intense peak that had her screaming into the pillow. He followed seconds later, another hot, claiming flood that filled her, spilling out around the sides of his cock with the force of it.
He collapsed beside her, spent. But Georgia was not done. She rolled, pushing him flat. She climbed over him, her body gleaming with sweat, her hair a wild halo. She took his soft, wet cock in her hand, stroking him gently back to full, aching hardness.
“Overtime,” she declared, her voice hoarse. She guided him back inside her, sinking down slowly, taking every thick inch. She began to ride him, a slow, grinding roll of her hips. She leaned forward, one hand braced on his chest, the other reaching behind to cradle his balls, squeezing and massaging the heavy sac as she moved.
“You’ve got more for me,” she chanted, riding him harder. “One more load. For our baby. Give it to me, Franklin. Breed me.”
Franklin’s face tightened as Georgia worked him with her body and her hand. Inside, she was a two-minute drill—no huddle, pressure from every angle—demanding everything he had left.
“Damn, baby… I don’t know if I—if I…”
“Don’t you quit on me, QB,” Georgia barked, riding him with a fierce, driving rhythm, the slap of skin echoing off the walls. “You said anything. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Anything I wanted.”
“Yes.”
“Then give me a baby. Your baby.”
Her cunt gripped him, guiding him deeper. She slammed down, taking all of his dick from tip to base inside, and something in Franklin broke open. From somewhere he’d only ever reached for when the game was on the line, Franklin found the throw. A groan shook loose—“oh my Lord…oh my Lord…oh my Lord”—mindless, raw, spilling between his clenched teeth.
The release ripped through him—back arched lifting them both off the bed, breath gone—as if he were dropping a game-winner into Georgia’s end zone. She clutched him close, laughing and crying at once, whispering, “That’s it… That’s it.” She could actually feel his release from the way his balls contracted in her hands.
She locked her legs on his hips and flattened over him like a tigress with her prey—holding him so he couldn’t move, inside or out, keeping every last drop where she wanted it.
“Damn love, I feel pregnant already.”
He let out a wrecked laugh against her shoulder. “Good—because I’m gonna need a bye week to recoup.”
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After the draft-night confetti settles, Georgia calls the play that turns their love into legacy. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #NSFW #AdultFiction #InterracialRomance #SportsRomance
Ooof! That play by play woke me up!
And I'm gonna need a shower...