Sibling Rivalry – interracial sex story

A classic interracial sex story from the bestselling pen, this and perverted mind of Tiggy Mills.

This is a most lurid tale of interracial lust and how a single dynamic black man can take sexual control of a whole family in an unbelievably perverted way. This story extends the boundaries of interracial domination, medicine humiliation and control…

Living things always have to be true to their nature. Scorpions sting and Roosters have to dominate and spread their seed regardless of any morality. Celia and Anna are young and rich sisters sent by their Member of Parliament father to explore an inner city, information pills sink estate for political information and experience. Two, young, innocent, plump chick lets that somehow naively, meet and become involved with the biggest, darkest Cock who captivates them and who’s sexual power proves irresistible. But it was only for few days and what can happen in a week or so? But it was long enough to change everything – not only for the chick lets but for their whole family. The dangerous black Rooster acquires a control, and his sense of perversion knows no bounds!

12386757_mlsss  If you like your erotica, as you like your coffee, strong black with a delicious twist of white, then this is definitely the story for you! A tale that could only be born through the bestselling mind of Tiggy Mills.

Long and meaty a MUST read for fans of the interracial sex story.



Celia and I had always been competitive.

She was different to me in every way apart from the fact that we both wanted to win at all costs.

I was petite, small breasted and boned with medium length light blonde hair, blue eyes and looked like my mother; her painting adorned the sumptuous living room and it had stared down at us imposingly and somehow disapprovingly forever.

She had sadly died when I was 7 and Celia was 6, so our maternal parent was somewhat hazy in my memory, and our father had since passed us, from one governess to the next.

Celia was taller than me- all long legs and dark-blonde hair; she was surly where I was outgoing and she was much wider and stronger than I was, although there was hardly a trace of fat on her.

We fought like cat and dog, or worse, we fought like siblings and those that know, will understand how, sibling rivalry, is the worst.

Over the years we had battles over toys, hockey, riding; seemingly everything, and from primary school to boarding and finishing school there was nothing that we had attempted together, that one had not sought to try to outdo the other.

On the whole the balance was pretty even, Celia was a little more sporty than me, I was a little more co-ordinated and, if I say so myself, just a little smarter than she was.

Celia, however had finally trumped me, and to my frustration, she had announced after the Spring Hunt Ball that she was engaged to Nigel Thomas, a well-to-do local boy, who’s father had made a mint out of cheese.

She was engaged and I wasn’t; she could now experiment and I couldn’t, she could have sex and I could, but nice girls don’t, not if you were from around here anyway!

I’d begged her to tell me what it was like, but she just smirked; her horrible knowing grin and told me that I would know as I matured.

She was only 19 and talking down to me. She was just insufferable!

The marriage was to be in around 6 months and I had searched for a suitor of my own, without success.

The boys were all right for a snog and to pinch my small breasts but there was nothing or no one that stirred my soul to a point where something, more serious physically, could possibly be involved or even contemplated.

I was having, to accept that this time, it appeared Celia had come first; she was a woman and I was not and I tried to be graceful in my defeat, in the unsettling fact and knowledge, but it did not rest easily with me.

It was early summer and there was another Conservative ball and fundraising.

After so many defeats to Labour these things were no longer just dances, but a literal breeding ground of ideas as to how to get the Labour Oiks, as Daddy liked to christen them all, out of number 10.

There was a meeting of the Young Conservative Committee and both Celia and I listened attentively to our very own honourable, venerable and handsome Jeremy Zachary who spoke so eloquently.

He talked about being proactive, understanding people of our own ages, from less privileged backgrounds, estates, real people, real problems!

He was inspiring and when he asked for volunteers to join the task force and live for a few weeks on various desperate council estates around the country, we all raised our hands enthusiastically.

Daddy was an MP and he had arranged for the group to be temporarily given flats in 5 rundown areas. Our mission was to integrate with the locals and report what life for the less fortunate, was actually and truly like.

And, of course, for the political slant, just what a terrible job the horrible Labour Party was doing.

Our estate was in Lambeth, Victoria Building and it was only when we were on the way home did Celia and I realise what we had let ourselves in for.

My sibling muttered to me in barely suppressed horror

“2 weeks on a council estate…how could we be so stupid?”

I wanted to console her but I felt nervous myself; just hid my concerns as I expected that Daddy would put his foot down and forbid us to go.

The fact was he did exactly the opposite; he congratulated us on our initiative and courage and told us that there was nothing to worry about, and that the local police would be there at a moment’s notice if there was any sign of trouble.

He spoke to us with real positivity for our prospective visit to the dark, dank, abyss of horrible destitute, real life.

“You’ll be fine girls…do you good…show you how the other half live… Eh? Your mother would be proud.”

Celia and I looked at each other and very much doubted that the haughty picture in the hallway would ever look down upon us favourably.

So we packed our bags and after various train-rides and taxis that took us deeper into the concrete jungle, we arrived outside the absurdly named Victoria Building.

It was not very much Victorian in it’s’ creation, or design at all!

It rose fully 8 storeys into the air and seemed to stretch forever; a morass of brick, concrete and grey shadows that cast gloom and despondency, randomly.

We reached our flat and breathed in relief when we finally got through the grime and deprivation outside, to find that our new temporary accommodation was clean.

It had no doubt been done under Daddy’s direction and it was a relief to Celia and me, that we would at least have a few comforts of home.

There was a room each for Celia and I, a small acceptable bathroom, and a recessed kitchen where the cupboards seemed to leave very little room to reach the sink and cooker on the other side of the narrow space.

It certainly wasn’t Buckingham Palace!

However my sibling and I just looked at each other and unpacked; we had expected far worse and decided to just make the best of it.

We had brought our old tatty clothes, as we wanted to engage and integrate as best we could but were clearly both apprehensive.

The idea was that Celia was to mix with the under 21’s and I was to mingle with the under 18’s, even though I was the elder.

It was decided we would approach our information gathering in this way as it was felt that I could get away with it because of my petite structure and innocent face!

I wasn’t happy though; I was older than my sister, wasn’t a child but that’s what the committee wanted and, after a fit-full sleepless night, I waited in the early morning, outside the local community centre nervously, waiting for the 10a.m. session.

There were already people queuing, badly dressed girls, in short skirts or shell suits, chewing gum animatedly or smoking.

I was more than a little intimidated but tried my level best not to show it.


It was a demand not a question, and my accuser was a small, striking, white, dark-haired girl with a cigarette dangling from the side of her bright, red lipstick covered mouth.

“Victoria Building…no 62…pleased to meet you.”

“Fuck you…posh spice!” she snapped.

I pretended that it was a joke and laughed but the girl’s dark eyes showed not a trace of humour.

“Ignore Jenny,” a voice sounded and I turned to see a black girl with frizzy wild hair, in a white skirt and short red top.

She laughed darkly with an edge to her tone.


To continue reading this outstanding interracial sex story please click the link below.

Sibling Rivalry on Amazon