Sammy So Young Ch. 01

He saw her little bush for the umpteenth time. Roe always forced himself to focus on her bush, cause the fat pussy, sitting so moist and ready underneath, screamed that it was worth the risk of getting his black ass killed, just for a taste . . . a sniff. She was eating ice cream, something so usual in the summertime. But it was chocolate this time and the color made Roe feel more positive about his chances.

The heat was making it impossible for the kid to keep from making a mess. It looked like she had given up the fight for cleanliness a long time ago--the ice cream dripped out of the cone, down, as it did many times before, between her chubby little tits. And she always went out with those two things so hilariously exposed behind a white tank-top, and a crappy, cheap-looking bra that was way to tight for what she had, and way too sheer for a kid her age. Roe imagined that most nineteen-year-old girls of the day probably didn't have much of that "how to be a lady" in them. And her stubby, pink and bursting nipples made him nod to a lack of education.

Summertime was also kind enough to keep the kid in flip-flops all the time, every . . . single . . . day. She always wore a different pair, the uniqueness told by the sandal's thongs and their varied colors. They were maroon this time in particular, stuck between her little big-toes, the toenails pink, never clashing, never matched. It was a sign of maturity--that ability to recognize the benefit of contrasts. But the girl was still young-minded enough to keep a silly hook of coordination going between both pairs of her lips.

The ones on her face had been done ridiculously--messy, some lipstick remaining on the tip of her nose, other bits of it melted, racing down in pink streams, flowing over chocolate rivers, out of her mouth, down her chin, leaving artistic stains on her tank-top. Nasty little bitch, she looked so clean everywhere, but seemed to get off on being dirty, offending anyone who cared too much about cleanliness. And the mess that was dripping between her breasts had somehow managed to make it through the absorbent obstructions of her top, sneak past the rim of her jean-skirt and reveal itself, in oh so slowly moving streams of candy and cosmetics, running over the left lip of her pussy.

It was something Roe would have never expected to see in such a nice neighborhood. The kid had to have been at least Middle-Class, but the massive WholeMart, looming mountain-like in the background of everything was probably too much of a draw. Why travel far to pay top dollar for clothes that might not look as good without the underwear on? She liked that cheap, made in China, ten-cent laundromat only, quick to tear attire. Roe saw no yuppie spread-eagled before him. The kid just wore what worked for her . . . probably, for anybody looking in her direction.

And that brought Roe's eyes straight to her pussy. He thought he'd become such an expert at voyeurism that he could take a bit of time gazing without letting all the other adult travelers at the bus stop notice what his eyes were focused on. It was a white neighborhood, and even though America had moved so far away from Old South rules, a thirty-something year old Negro still wouldn't look too great to the random eye if he got caught checking out such young girls.

But damn, her pussy looked good enough to get hung for. It was one of those worked-pussies, tightly closed off business hours, but bulged from within, still swollen from the dozen or so dicks that left their supplies inside. The pussy looked ripe, like the ripest fruit--the farmers picking the best for the crowds, but leaving the greatest for whoever saw the tree.

Roe quickly glanced around the bus stop to see if anybody was watching him watch the girl. There were about ten people sitting, standing around, focused on their phones with either eye or ear. He would've liked to have been a rebel in the crowd, the only one holding that ancient thing called a newspaper--the kind made of paper--just like back in the good old days, when the dead-tree's rustling made being an anonymous pervert such a challenge. But Roe thought his black skin was retro enough. So he carried a mini-tablet around to fit in while keeping his eyes satisfied.

And he was glad for the distracting device as there was a woman sitting quite close beside him. She was being more than nosy, giving Roe vibes that he would've appreciated months earlier, but were now just slightly annoying. What else mattered with his true interest sitting so close, so far away on the bench opposite him? The woman was doing that foot fetish thing--taking quick glances to see if he was watching her dip the foot of her crossed leg, in, out of her heels, sometimes leaving the stockinged toes fully exposed. And those toes looked expertly done, the nails clear and clean, with white tips cut to a mathematical accord, three rings adding some shine. It was a gorgeous display from a woman of years, so flirtatious for a stranger, but still a classy boast of her and her pedicurist's attention to detail.

Roe almost felt sorry for the woman, because with all her obvious structure, she was still no match for Sammy--the slobby, nineteen-year-old little slut who'd probably have trouble spelling the word class. Roe remembered when he was close enough to the kid, when he peeked down while standing behind her, that beautiful day when the busses were short and passengers had to make due with less rides going in more directions. Sammy wasn't even close to womanhood--she was a girl that just did it her own way: her toenails were cut with zero accuracy, some too low, others too high, the nail polish itself plastered in small areas over the soft skin of her feet.

And sometimes, her feet didn't look too soft--Sammy probably did what no female should, left her house, her body bathed and clean, but without moisturising, her feet dry, dry, dry, and ashy as a shivering black man's ass. But it seemed the right way for a nineteen-year-old to be. The real way.

Nineteen and still a mess. Probably spoiled. Probably a dropout. Roe overheard Sammy tell her age to someone on her phone. And he figured that person had to be an older someone. Kids don't brag about things that to other kids.

Roe imagined that the man on the phone was at least his age. Sammy seemed too young, dumb, and bored to be interested in anything her demographic cared about, or could stuff in their genitals. Roe believed the guy or guys on her phone were the ones who had stretched her pussy out, leaving a goofy, slob of a kid behind, so uncouth, with nothing but her fuckability to get by. He wished he could speak to those men, and told himself that if he never got his turn with Sammy, the pictures they probably still had should suffice.

Sounds of public transportation snapped Roe back into a present that wasn't swallowed by Sammy's vagina. The bus was on its way--the waiting travelers stood, pocketed their phones, grabbed their purses, yawned and stretched, preparing for the first ass-in-the-seat journey of their day. But the woman next to Roe had yet to move. Her foot was now fully out of its shoe, her toes close to his leg. The shoe itself was on its side, on the ground, a place he'd never guess something so obviously expensive would be.

And though Roe's learned, voyeuristic skills had given him the ability to see most of the world around him, even while focused in one direction, he had to move his head and eyes, up and to the right, to fully check on his lingering neighbor. She was glaring at him . . . at Sammy--back and forth, Roe to Sammy, her eyes angrily flashing to what Roe thought none of the white people around him would've ever guessed he'd been gazing at.

He waited for the slur or slap to make contact, but the beady-eyed, mature bitch just stood, turned and bent over to retrieve her shoe, putting her big, muscular ass right on the side of his face. Though lusting for another, he was still a man, and he sniffed her butt deeply, searching for something more telling behind the perfume and thick fabric of her skirt. The woman took her time fixing the shoe back onto her heel, but finished soon enough, smoothed hands down her suit and walked off.

She stopped in place as she got close to Sammy. The woman stared at the little girl, who even under such an assault of attention, still lazily slurped her ice cream, with her fat legs wide open, her pussy sugared, exposed, and uncaring. The kid was a disgusting mess--chocolate had soiled the front of her shirt to a delicious brown, the nipples of her strained breasts were pink enough to glare through the muddy, sticky fabric.

Roe felt his heart racing, put his head down just as the woman turned her attention towards him. He waited for what seemed like days, but felt peace on every fading step he heard her take in the opposite direction. And his heart kept its pace, even after the bus had driven off.

Roe figured he'd have to move out of his neighborhood. The suburbs were always a hassle: the newer, less white, white folks were a hell of a lot more caustic towards anything dark as he was. But Roe told himself there'd be time to get out before the lynch mobs came.

As he stared at the ground, waiting for his bus to arrive, he blamed himself for being so stupid, such an addict. A grown man--a black one at that--should've known to keep a distance, to be satisfied with shots of Sammy's pussy--feed the imagination, jerk off, stay alive. And he wondered how many of his neighbors the beady-eyed, white woman had already called.

Roe looked up to gaze at the distant mass of pretty homes and their reflective windows, extending sunlight in every direction. He wondered if there were fiery eyes watching from behind the glass, focused on his position in a surrounding glare. And with nerves shaking him to the core, he had to wonder something else: why hadn't Sammy gotten on the bus? Why, still picking from her mush of an ice cream cone, was she looking at him like that?