Chapter 4: Life and Death

“I’ll be leaving soon.” Dorothy told me one morning as she dressed, pulling a sexy bra over her large gravity defying tits. She always kept her vagina shaved, and colored her hair a darker blond than her natural platinum color.

“Why? I asked her, “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet, I just like to keep moving. Ok, it’s the tension. You’re still in love with Maryam, and she hasn’t gotten over you either. Anders has a hardon for me, and I can’t stop flirting with him either. Your lust for me has faded and your semen doesn’t build up like it used to. I have a feeling, it’s just time for me to move on.”

“You’ve been working for me for the last month.” I said, “I owe you some pay.”

Anders seemed more upset that me about Dorothy’s decision to leave. He pleaded with her to stay on, so did Maryam.

I gave her the same as I paid the hired women for a month, $4,000. I paid her in cash, because she didn’t have a bank account.

The strange blond insisted on sucking my cock one last time before I drove her to the bus station. It was a good blowjob, actually it was a great blowjob. Eye contact, fingers stroking my body as her mouth moved up and down my stiff cock, her short hair silky smooth as I petted her affectionately.

I never asked her what or who she was running from; she had no driving license or phone of her own and was paran

She put my dick between her big milk white tits for a moment, then kissed my mouth, then went down on me again. She was right; I still loved Maryam. The way she made me come, it was impossible not to love Dorothy too though. She deserved a man to love her more than I could; she was amazing really. Whip smart, highly educated, classy, beautiful, and to top it all off she loved to suck cock. She was the perfect woman, and I was in love with another. Who didn’t want me anymore.

“I’ll help you, hide you, whatever you need.” I offered again. “You’re safe here, I’ll protect you.”

“I appreciate that Chuck; I like you guys and everything, I really, I need to go. Just give me a good ejaculation for the road.”

I did; and it was a good one too.

A half hour later, the mysterious blond teenager kissed me, got out of my car, and then vanished just as she’d appeared 3 months earlier, poof, all gone. I never saw her again.

Just a few days later, the raid happened.

Feds showed up looking for Dorothy. I don’t know how they knew she’d been at my house.

They interrogated me as if I were a criminal (which, despite appearances, I’m not. Really). They said Dorothy wasn’t her real name, sometimes she was called Gisella or Gisele, and she was wanted for terrorism, and if I didn’t tell them where she was I was complicit and they’d get me for it.

By deporting Maryam.

I honestly had no idea where Dorothy had gone. I begged them not to take it out on an innocent girl.

“She’s not innocent!” the fed barked, “She’s an illegal migrant, and you’re complicit.”

Her refugee request had been denied a year before, they’d sent the paperwork to her old address. While we’d been busy with things that seemed important, we’d forgotten to follow up on Maryam’s immigration status.

Long story short; they said our marriage wasn’t recognized by US immigration. I was accused of a fraudulent marriage and they took her away. By the time we even knew what was happening, she was in a detention center due to be deported to Zambia.

Anders’s visa had expired too; he went back to Switzerland.

I was relieved in a way; there was nothing I could do and she was gone, it was beyond my power to stop the deportation. I’d done what I could do for her, now it was time to move on, maybe with one of those high achieving single moms I was flirting with. At the same time, I was devastated. I really liked having her around, even after we’d stopped sleeping together. Then Maryam called; they’d given her phone back to her at the airport.

“I’m afraid, really afraid.” She cried, “What will I do there? I don’t know anyone except my parents, I can’t remember the language, I don’t have any money!”

“I’ll send you money.” I told her, “You’re still my wife.”

“Am I?” she asked, “The judge said our marriage was fake, I took you for granted, I took everything for granted, I forgot that I’m not American. Am I your wife, Chuck?”

“Yes, you are.” I said gallantly, immediately regretting it. “Look, we might have both been doing it with other people, but we always loved each other, right?”

“Yes.” She agreed.

“Ok then.” I said. “You’re my girl, Maryam. I’ll always take care of you. When’s your flight?”

“In an hour.”

“Fuck.” I exclaimed.

“God damn Chuck, you know I like to have fun, it’s just not a good time at the moment you know.”

We both laughed; and that was why I loved her. Maryam’s spirit, her good humor was more attractive than even her exquisite body, or her tight wet pussy.

I went to a lawyer, who told me we might win a case, but it would take a long time to get her back; like, 10 years.

“I’m 68 years old!” I told her, “I probably don’t have 10 years.”

She shrugged; “A marriage with an age gap like yours is a hard sell.” She told me, “Maybe if you had a kid I could get it done. Maybe. If you’re serious about being with her, you’ll need to go to Zambia.”

The daycare business was booming; I hired another woman to help, moved everything out of the bedrooms, and took on 10 more kids. I talked to the trusties of my first wife’s family trust about it all; I didn’t want anything to blow up on me. They said I wasn’t breaking any conditions, but suggested I buy out the place. They were willing to settle for a very reasonable sum. More meetings, banks and insurance, all the shit I never wanted to know about.

I talked to Maryam every day; I tried to reassure her it would be ok, I’d find a solution. The reality was that we were pitched against the federal government, some bureaucrat had made a decision and it was beyond my power to reverse it.

I flew to Africa a couple of days later and met her at her hotel in Lusaka. My idea was to set her up with an apartment and make her feel ok before going back home. We’d talk to lawyers and figure shit out. And then I saw her.

We’d lived together for over 2 years, the last one was platonic. She’d been with other guys, I’d been with other women, we’d both moved on.

Yet when we met in that hotel in Africa, far from home, both of us uncertain about our future, a current seemed to pass between us; and I knew the gorgeous 18 year old was mine if I wanted her. And man, I did want her. We hugged, she was my height now, her tits were big and firm, her waist narrow, and her ass just a little bit bigger than before. Her curly black hair was tied behind her head, and fanned out down her back.

“No one believes we’re really married.” She lamented, “We don’t even believe it ourselves. You’re going to leave me here, aren’t you?”

She was right. I would take her home again if I could, but there was no way. So what could I do? I couldn’t just stay there in Africa.

I really didn’t know what to do. Break my own rule and get back into bed with her? My dick said yes, my heart said yes, my brain said no. I was too old for that, for her, for everything. I needed to get back to the states, to my house, my business, my bike, my dog, my life.

We rented an apartment in Lusaka; I thought I’d get her settled, and if I could just keep my dick in my pants maybe she’d find a local guy and I’d be free of her.

The business was going ok back home, I’d left my two employees in charge. I could still keep an eye on things at the house on the web cameras; most of the time, the kids were fine on their own without adult interference. Maryam had the idea to hire some Zambian girls to watch the monitors during the whole US day (Which began in the middle of the African night). Wages were so low here that it cost very little, we could keep a finger on things, and my US employees only had to be alerted to intervene when necessary.

We walked around the city together; the noise, the color, the smells assaulted the senses. It was weird to be (almost) the only white man on a street. I was expecting it to be scorching hot, actually the temperature wasn’t bad at all, due to the high elevation. The sun was incredibly powerful though, like a death ray at mid day. I soon learned to avoid direct sunlight.

“I could hire more people.” Maryam suggested, “We could offer the virtual child monitoring to other day care places. If it works, there is no growth limit.”

“We’d need some way to ensure the locals keep watching the monitors. If they space out and miss something, it would all unravel.”

“That’s true.” She conceded, “We can think about it though.”

Things moved slowly; just finding her birth certificate from the rural town where she’d been born took weeks. We decided to go there and do it ourselves. I bought a motorcycle, a 1982 Harley in great condition for just a few thousand dollars. Maryam climbed onto the back, and we cruised out of the city into the African countryside.

I knew right away that this was a mistake. She held me tight, as she used to do. Her young body against my back, her face on my neck because we weren’t wearing helmets. The roads were good, but crowded with all manner of traffic; animals, carts, bicycles, pedestrians, cars, trucks, motorbikes. We weaved through, rode up mountains, through jungles, and huge expanses of lush farmland. We stopped for lunch at a shack restaurant next to a waterfall. I looked into her dark eyes, her beautiful dark face, and I was in love again. Or still.

The adventure was a blast; a ride with a beautiful young woman, a destination, a mission. We shared a hotel room, in separate beds. I wanted her so badly, I could taste her in my mouth. There she was, her young black frame in the bed just a few feet from mine, all I had to do was sit my ass next to her, touch her face, kiss her again.

I was 68, she was 18. I was still in good shape, but that could end at any moment. If I really loved her, I shouldn’t fuck her. I should get her settled, legally and financially secure. Then she would be free, and that was the most important thing.

“Everyone thinks we’re fucking and unmarried, when in reality we’re not fucking and married.” She noted as a priest scowled at us on the street the next morning. We found the office, got the precious paper, and rode back to the capital the next day.

Over the next few weeks, we met lawyers to straighten up Maryam’s paperwork and to form a corporation, we rented a room in an office building that had fiber and the bandwidth we’d need. I wasn’t very optimistic, it didn’t cost much though so it seemed worth a try.

The bank and building owner wanted on my name on things, Not Maryam’s. At my insistence though, her name was just underneath. 50-50 on everything, and I had a private document made that I’d sold my half to her.

“Why?” She asked.

“So you’re dependent on no one. So that you’re free.” I said. “Besides, half of nothing is nothing.”

“I’m a teenage African girl, I can’t be free.” She grumbled. “You just want to leave me here.”

“I don’t!” I objected, “I’d take you home if I could.”

“I have no home now.” She said darkly. “I’m not American, I’m not Zambian either.”

I got a haircut and shaved, then worked on building the first customer base, taking meetings online. We offered a cheap introductory period, and after calling 60 child care businesses, I managed to get 3 to sign up.

Maryam hired 8 college girls, and the business was off the ground. And it worked; nothing dramatic, the girls watched the kids at play and sent an alert if anyone needed attention. These were bigger outfits than ours, with 80 or more children, a dozen rooms, and a playground.

We scored a top notch IT guy who would work for profit share, and rented two more rooms on the same floor. A few more customers, and Maryam would have an income to sustain her; I thought the way to sell in the age of spam and cold calls was in person, walk up and knock on real doors.

I was about to make my return flight reservation, when one of the girls at the house back home called with the worst possible news.

Zeke, my beloved dog, had died.

I was surprised at how hard the news hit me; he was an old dog, he’d lived a good life. But he’d died alone, I’d abandoned him when he needed me. He’d been faithful, I had not.

I wallowed in the pain for a while; I had a terrible urge to get drunk, and I would have if Maryam wasn’t there with me. I’m no good when I’m drunk, I become a much worse asshole than normal. She’d never seen me that way, and I couldn’t let her see me that way. Even after the death of my pal Zeke.

We rode for hours, only the drumming of the big V-twin and an open road could ease my pain. The hot wind blew the tears out of my eyes so I could pretend they weren’t real.

We stopped at a hotel for the night, the same place where we’d gone to retrieve Maryam’s birth certificate. The receptionist said something to Maryam and she replied scathingly. She’d picked up some of her forgotten language.

“What did he say?” I asked her when we were alone.

“He asked how much you pay me, and replied that if I told my HUSBAND what he’d said, you’d gut him.”

“I will.” I said, standing up, “You want to watch?”

“Relax, we’re not even married, really.” She sighed.

She cuddled against me in the bed, and I knew she wanted more. I would have too, if it weren’t for the agony in my heart over the dog.

She rolled away from me. “You and your stupid rule.” She muttered in the darkness.

I woke at dawn. Maryam was asleep next to me, her gorgeous dark body covered by a light blanket, her curly black hair spilling across the pillow. I just watched her for a while, thinking of her future, her past, her lovely young titties and her tight dark pussy.

I’d seen her flirting with our IT guy. He was smart, really smart. If he’d been born in the US or EU, we’d never be able to afford him. Anyway, he was young, tall, good looking. He’d be a good match for my girl.

The country was full of young men, some were clever, some were decent. She was a very attractive young woman, in all sorts of ways. The business we were building was her idea, I was just helping out. I intentionally didn’t inject myself except when she asked me to. I was a salesman and figurehead, Maryam made the decisions, hired, fired, and all that. The business was growing fast, and it was her work, her ideas, and her profits.

I didn’t need to worry about her, she’d be just fine. I could go home; I had my pension, my house, and my bike.

And then she opened her eyes, and saw me looking at her. And she smiled, because she liked me looking at her.

And she was so fucking beautiful, so sexy, that an old pervert like me couldn’t resist. My hand reached out, slid under her blanket, and touched her warm smooth young skin for the first time in more than a year.

Then she was in my arms, her body against my body, her mouth on my mouth, her hands on my hairy old back. My cock was rock hard, not bad for an old guy like me. Should I though? Should I take her, use her for my pleasure, when she really needed to move on to a man who could care for her?

I pulled away, swinging my feet off the bed. I had to pee anyway. When I came out of the bathroom I found her exposed in the bed, naked. She looked at me mysteriously, and then slowly, deliberately lifted and opened her long lean dark legs, opened them wide until I was looking into that sweet tight juicy pussy I missed so much.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Stop being stupid.” She replied.

I was barely holding my emotions under control, and I knew if I slid my old rod back into that tight body of hers, and shared an orgasm looking into those deep dark eyes, I’d be trapped. Lost in Africa, eaten alive, my heart would consumed by the dark continent.

I reminded myself that I was a man with iron discipline; I’d stopped smoking and drinking just by deciding to. I’d kept my weight down too. If I could do those things, well then I could taste some teenage pussy without getting hooked. She wanted some, I wanted some, she was an adult now.

I climbed over the foot of her bed and my face went to her groin; her scent was intoxicating. I kissed the inside of her thigh, her skin was smooth, warm, and sweet to the taste. Her nipples bounced into my mouth, her fingers held my face and my tongue found her mouth. Her hand went to my cock and she held it in a tight desperate grip as we kissed, our naked bodies separated by an inch of cool dry air.

For an age, we kissed, touched, caressed each other. Her little fingers made my cock feel huge and potent, my body strong and able.

My cock finally, inevitably went inside her again, my rules were shredded, my mind warped with desire, I had to have her, I had to care for her, she was my girl!

My tight cunted horny black African girl.

The first time I’d fucked her, she was a virgin. I seduced her, used my experience and wiles to get her where I wanted her. To open her vulnerable mind and then her young legs.

This time was different; she’d been with other men, and boys. She was no longer naïve. She knew me, knew what she was getting, she knew what her alternatives were too.

Was she just using me though? Maybe she just wanted to fuck me one last time, then leave me. She no longer needed me, I’d made sure of that.

When we went to meetings, I let her do all the talking. I got us in the door with my old white face, then made it clear that she was the one in the driver’s seat. My name was on things because it had to be to make the gears turn, but she had majority ownership. I didn’t need or want a business in Zambia; she did. And if I could help her, I would. Because I loved her.

Her face, her mouth, her eyes looking at me as I fucked her, my 70 year old dick inside a tight 20 year old pussy. That wasn’t it though; I could hire a dozen African teenagers, or travel to Thailand, Vietnam, or Laos where young whores were very affordable if that was all it was about.