Chapter 1: The Rebellious African Girl

Zeke jumped up and ran down the porch steps, out onto the sidewalk, tail wagging. That was odd, because Zeke is trained to sniff hot pussy, and the girl he was flirting with wasn’t.

She was (as usual) dressed in some sort of head to toe Muslim sack like garment with a headscarf, so only her black face showed. It was a young face, very pretty. Her skin was very dark, a pure African skin that was rare in the USA. She had a pointed chin and a pointed nose, big dark eyes. She was small, around 5’6”, a couple of inches shorter than me.

The girl was not for me. I’m a pervert you see, and old pervert who hankers after young pussy. And sometimes, I get some. I cruise around on my bike, checking the highway rest area near the girls boarding school for runaways. I lurk outside high school parties at night. I try to get a girl talking, or onto the back of my motorcycle, I buy a meal, flirt, go out to the beach, let them play with my secret weapon, Zeke. Girls just love Zeke, he’s cute and fluffy.

Sometimes, I get a girl into my bed. They don’t stay there long though; I’m old, grey, poor, and not very good at social shit. That’s ok, because girls that turn me on are too young for me. They would never stay long anyway. They get the “Bad old man biker” experience and go back to mommy and daddy.

Anyway, the African schoolgirl petted my buddy Zeke and he was all friendly. “I thought you weren’t allowed to touch dogs.” I commented.

“Don’t tell my dad!” she laughed. I’d never even seen her smile before. I have to say, she looked good when she smiled.

“I’m Chuck.” I told her.

“I’m Maryam.” She said brightly, her white teeth contrasting with her dark chocolate face.

Her family lived around the corner; her mother wore the getup too, and her dad wore an ethnic hat and had that square cut beard that let everyone know he was a follower of that faith. He was ok, he’d stopped to give me a jump start once. They were refugees from Zambia, they seemed well off though. He drove a late model Mercedes.

Maryam went on her way and Zeke came back onto the porch to wait for the next friendly person.

One hot night a few weeks later, the girl appeared in my back yard as I was grilling some sausages. She was wearing loose pants, a tee shirt, and her hair was uncovered, tied behind her head. She stared at the grill.

“Can I have one?” she asked.

“It’s pork.” I informed her.

“I know.” She replied, “Just don’t tell my dad.”

Now her dad was the sort of man it was better not to mess with; and I know that sort, because I’m one too. Still, if someone is at my place and asks for food, I give them food. And if a schoolgirl wants to hang around, or talk, or whatever; well, that’s ok with me too. I don’t need the possibility of fucking to enjoy the company of a woman or a girl.

We ate together in silence. It took an effort not to stare at her, because she was gorgeous. Her teenage figure, tight ass and tiny waist, her wavy black hair, her bright eyes.

Then she thanked me and slipped away into the back alley between the houses.

She started coming by regularly, and we talked. Talk was like rain in a desert to her, she seemed to light up and it was easy to get her laughing; I found myself thinking up new jokes and stories to tell her when she’d come by. And after she left, I’d jerk off and think of her fondly. She was too young to fuck, even for me. I liked her anyway, she was a light in my dork night.

She’d lived stateside since she was 5. That was when? 10 years. Ok, got it. Dangerous, but not illegal. She was 15 years old and I was 65.

Ok, look, I’m an old man. You could say, a dirty old man; because I always hankered after young girls. I didn’t expect to get physical with Maryam, it didn’t even matter. Just laughing and flirting with a sweet young thing like her was reward enough for my time and the output of my grill. Yeah, it was silly. Was I ‘grooming’ her? I honestly don’t know. Is that the same as flirting? I was just having fun, some laughs with a pretty girl.

In secret.

I was about as white as she was black. Some tats, some scars, a lifelong biker. I sort of inherited this suburban house from my wife; I can live in it but I don’t get title, I can’t sell it. When I die, it would revert to her family trust. In other words, I have nothing. I’m a poor man in a middle class house.

Autum came around, and Maryam kept doing so too. Only late, in the dark, through the ally. We moved inside.

She liked to use my computer or watch “the Simpsons”, her dad didn’t let her at home. He thought it was a bad influence. Anyway, there’s like 100 seasons of it so we were binging every night until late.

Hanging out, sharing laughter and food, the shelter of my home. Primal shit. I was in love with her, even though I was still sure I could never have her; I tried to force my feelings into a platonic state, she could be my daughter, or granddaughter. Except she wasn’t. She was flirting with me all the time too, I jerked off every night thinking about her. Not her gorgeous slim teenage body; I imagined her face, her smile, my fantasy was that she’d take pleasure at my touch, my kiss, my old penis would pass between her pretty lips and she’d like it. That’s my thing; I’m turned on by a girl being turned on. That’s it and that’s all, if she isn’t interested then neither am I. Yeah, that’s why I don’t get much pussy anymore.

An old girlfriend of a friend of mine was newly widowed and I wanted to invite her over. She wasn’t a sure thing, but if I got her she’d cook, clean, suck, fuck, ride with me on my bike, and be my old lady. She was old, grey, hefty, and actually a possibility.

The African teenager laughed at another joke; Fuck, she was beautiful when she laughed. I had to either get between those thin thighs, or break it off with her.

“How about a kiss goodnight?” I asked her as she was leaving.

She stared at me wide eyed. “Ok.” she said.

The first one was barely anything. Just a peck. It was enough for me, something to work with.

Over the next month we started to hug, and kiss a little longer. I touched her perfect chocolate skin with my hands, caressed her, and she seemed to like it. I knew it was wrong to try and change our friendship into a sexual relationship; my house was her refuge, her escape. I’d gained her trust, and now was abusing it. And I’d take it as far as she’d go too.

She wanted anything forbidden; I was sure she’d ask me for booze soon, and probably cigarettes or dope. Giving her any of that would get me in trouble, not sharing it with her would drive a wedge between us; it would force me to treat her as a child who was too young for those things but not for the other things I wanted to do with her. So I got rid of my booze and smokes.

I’d been drinking and smoking for a half century, so that was no small achievement. Withdrawals were killing me, and then Maryam slipped in though the back door, and her bright smile took all the tension from my mind.

I’d had this disease many times before, the fixation on a woman or girl. I knew it was warping my mind, probably unhealthy, it might even kill me. It sure was fun though. If I actually got to fuck her, it was worth all that and more. If I never fucked her (far more likely), then stopping my nasty habits was still a pretty big achievement. I resolved to stay clean until she was no longer a possibility. I used my unsatisfied lust as a tool.

I realized that I was too fat to have any chance with her, so I went on a 20 day fast and dropped 20 pounds. I’d done that before, it works for me. It was worth doing even if I never got my pervert dick inside my sexy little neighbor. I figured she’d get bored of me soon and I’d go back to eating shit, smoking, and drinking. This was just a short interlude of rare self-denial.

As we watched TV together, I took her hand; so small, so fine. She let me hold it, and stroke it.

“Is this alright?” I asked her.

She was silent for a minute, and I was about to let go and give up, when she said “Yes. It’s nice.”

I was surprised at how it made me feel; just holding her hand took away the gnawing hunger I had for alcohol and nicotine. The girl was my new drug.

Her eyes watched the screen as her nipples pushed through her tee shirt. That was when I realized I might really fuck her; because she kept wanting more. More touch, affection, attention. Shit, I’d do it too. How could I resist?

Back when I was riding with my pals in the club, we picked up girls from time to time. Some running from relationships, abusive men or just poverty. They knew the price of getting onto one of our Harleys; and the benefits. Some were underage, runaways. Their boyfriends or husbands or parents couldn’t harm them while they were biker babes. No one fucked with biker gangs. Clubs I mean.

We were a patriarchal bunch, women were mostly subservient, and cared for. Women did the cooking and cleaning, and then went to bed with whoever they were told to go to bed with. In return, we offered food, shelter, and safety (from others). Some stayed for years, most moved on after they’d had the experience. The thing was, we always respected our women, in our way. Yeah, we could be violent, but never to our women. It wasn’t our way. We were a small club, more like a commune really. Mostly harmless.

Anyway, what I mean is that I’m no “modern” man. I’m no scum either, I didn’t want to hurt her. Just, you know, have some fun maybe.

She seemed to melt into me when I caressed her small body. Just her shoulders, arms. Hands. Belly. She needed to be touched; she needed love. She didn’t need sex; I did. I don’t want to justify what I did, I’m only explaining it.

My hand slipped higher; under her shirt. Her breathing seemed to pause. My hand was aching to fondle her tight little tits, but I forced it back.

I leaned closer, I pulled her willing face to me, and I kissed her. Oh man, it was so wrong, and it felt so good. She wanted more, I think she did, how could a teenage girl want to make out with a dirty old man? Daddy issues, whatever.

Everyone is different. There are a thousand perversions. What is a perversion though?

1; distortion or corruption of the original course, meaning, or state of something.

Well, if the purpose of sex is reproduction, it would not be a perversion, because that could happen. If the purpose is emotional bonding, that was working too. So by this definition, it would not be a perversion if I fucked the girl.

2; sexual behavior that is considered abnormal and unacceptable.

Uh oh. Looks like I’m in trouble.

She knew she was kissing an adult, and she knew what adults did after that. And she kept on going.

My fingers raked through her hair, our tongues danced, my cock ached to know her touch. If we did it, she’d love me, or hate me, maybe both.

“It’s late, you’d better go home.” I told her.

“Really?”

“Go home and think about it.” I told her. “I’ll be here if you decide to come back.”

As I watched her slim young body slip away into the night, I wondered what was more terrifying; her coming back for more, or not coming back at all. She was 16 then; I justified my actions to myself by thinking that lots of girls lost their cherry at that age.