“My sincere condolences for the loss of your grandma,” the gentleman held Misty’s small hand in both his mitt-sized hands, towering over her like an oak tree.

She looked up into his ebony eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Wilkins.”

Then extending his hand to her father standing next to her, the 6-foot 6-inch-tall Mr. Wilkins offered his condolences and added, “Your mother was a fine lady. God bless her soul and may she rest in peace.”

“Who’s that? George Foreman?” Her father asked her sarcastically when the well-dressed, broad-shouldered, hunk of a man walked away.

Misty didn’t see any similarities with the heavyweight boxing champion except for the shaved head.

“That’s Mr. Wilkins. George Wilkins. He lives in the trailer next to Grandma’s. He’s the one who fixed the bathroom door that you broke down that time you came and spanked and pounded me for playing hooky.”

Misty’s father searched his memory and remembered the night he barged into the trailer, hauled Misty by her hair from the bathroom, where she had locked herself in, and gave her a lesson that Grandma hoped would make things better. It was one of many lessons that she rightfully deserved.

She was 14 then and needed an attitude correction. Grandma knew that Misty’s father had the balls and the 7-inches to make it happen. That’s how it was always done in her family, the old-fashioned way of slam-bang, done fast and furiously. No words were needed. However, when the dust settled, order and calm were restored. Male sovereignty over female was the only tried and true method to break a wife’s or a daughter’s snotty attitude and make her behave.

Misty grew up without a mother. Sassy and ill-bred like a wild foal, she was in need of a good breeding to the point where she deliberately continued acting up to stoke her father’s ire and receive his carnal lessons.

“I’ll be okay, Dad,” Misty told him as he dropped her off at Grandma’s trailer. “I don’t need a babysitter anymore.”

“Well, for the time being at least until we figure out something more long-term,” he said, although moving in with him and his two horny girlfriends was never a plan. Having Misty live with Grandma had been the perfect arrangement. This way the old lady didn’t live alone and he didn’t have his troublesome daughter around giving him grief.

As Misty walked to the trailer, he gave her a final piece of advice. “You behave and I don’t want you bringing any boys over for anything. You hear me, girl?”

“Yes, Dad,” she said rolling her eyes and noticing that Mr. Wilkins had heard the exchange from his tiny yard next door.

Mr. Wilkins was a fit, debonair 50-year-old bachelor. His parents were from Jamaica, making him the only black resident in an otherwise all-white trailer park. He was living off the well-invested life insurance his father left him a few years back. To keep himself busy and supplement his income to satisfy his only vice of playing the lottery and visiting the casinos, he did odd jobs as a handyman for cash only. He wanted the IRS off his back.

Grandma was one of his regular customers, fixing a leaky faucet here, adjusting cabinet doors there, and even replacing lightbulbs, sometimes two or three times in a short period. He quickly grew suspicious that she fancied his company and always had a cold beer stocked in the fridge just for him to get him to stay longer.

Over the years, he watched Misty grow from a pre-pubescent haughty-toity to a hotty teeny-bopper with freckles, long auburn hair, coltish legs, perky titties, and an ass that was prime. Fifteen now and standing 5-foot 4-inches tall, she had filled out in all the right places. Just looking at her made his heart beat faster, and she lived in his fantasies whenever he needed to appease his black pythonic buddy.

He had just put up his feet in his oversized, brown leather recliner to watch some television when he heard a knock on his door. “Not at this hour,” he grumbled, hoping it wasn’t a resident with some plumbing problem.

His eyes popped when he opened the door and saw Misty standing below at the foot of the steps. She had changed from her somber black-and-grey mourning attire into a dazzling, pink, Barbie-doll pleated miniskirt, 4 inches too short, and a tight, white T-shirt tied under her tennis-sized titties and exposing her taut belly and cute outie bellybutton.

“Good evening, Mr. Wilkins,” she said, raising her hand to shoulder level, waving at him like Princess Diana, and giving him a sweet, flirtatious smile. Immediately, her eyes shifted from his chiseled, swarthy face down to the embossed bulge in his red satin boxer shorts eye level with her face—something a perspicacious teenage girl would never miss.

“What can I do for you, Misty,” he said breaking her focus on the hidden fruit of the loom.

She swallowed hard. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I can’t seem to get this jar of spaghetti sauce open,” she whined, holding the jar up to her chest.

“Oh...,” he said staring at the pubescent cleavage that separated her cupcakes, topped by emergent pointy peaks. “ ... well, why don’t you come on in?”

He held the door open for her and, as she slipped past him, he caught a whiff of her silky auburn hair and immediately recognized the scent of peach shampoo. It reminded him of the peaches he fondled and munched on in his fantasies while giving his buddy a vigorous workout.

“Have a seat, Misty,” he pointed to the overstuffed sofa where she sank between several soft cushions, making the skirt shift and exposing the pink folds at the apex of her thighs.

As he struggled to twist open the lid of the spaghetti jar, he admonished himself for allowing Misty into his trailer. Unaccompanied, underage, half-naked, and white! As a black man in a conservative community, he could get himself into a shitload of trouble with the old guard boys like Misty’s father.

“Um, Mr. Wilkins, do you like watching Naked and Afraid?” Misty asked as a new episode started on the 75-inch screen.

“I don’t think you should be watching that,” he quickly replied, sweat already forming on his forehead. And it wasn’t because of the tight lid, but the tightness forming in his shorts.

“Grandma caught me once watching the episode where a black man and a white woman have to share body heat to survive the cold nights,” Misty said with a smarty pants smirk. “She told Dad, and boy did he give it to me good. I couldn’t walk for a day.” She wiggled her ass remembering the lesson.

Under a promise of strict secrecy, Grandma told Mr. Wilkins about her son’s method of straightening out Misty’s bad behavior. It was a family thing and Misty did or said things that earned her father’s unorthodox attention.

Mr. Wilkins was aghast at the revelations. The disciplinary methods seemed fucked up and he swore to never say a word nor get involved. Now, staring at Misty rubbing her bare tush on the sofa with her pink gash showing, grinning and nodding happily, he wondered how much she enjoyed those shamelessly scandalous, incestuous sessions.

“Okay, here you go,” he held out the jar by the door to usher Misty back to her trailer. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Misty bounced off the sofa and sashayed toward him. “Thanks, Mr. Wilkins, you’re a real lifesaver,” she said smiling and staring at him with questionable ideas in her eyes, waiting for him to say or do something.

“Yeah ... of course ... anytime,” he said nodding briskly.

As soon as he had the door closed, he peered between the blinds of the front bay window watching Misty skipping across the front of his trailer and out of sight. He took a deep breath that he had been holding for a while, glad that Misty’s unexpected, provocative visit ended quickly, yet wondering if he had the courage to give his nubile neighbor the kind of attention and love she craved.

The stirrings in his shorts had subsided, but there was a wet spot where the tip of his throbbing manhood tried to pitch a tent. Resigned to be alone and play solitaire with his 8-inch buddy, he turned off the television and headed for the bedroom.

He had hardly taken two steps when the calm was shattered by a frantic knocking on the door. It scared the bejeezus out of him and made his heart accelerate.

“Mr. Wilkins!” came the familiar voice of an anxious Misty followed by more insistent knocks.

He swung open the door to see the girl clutching the jar. Her ashen-looking face and frightened eyes gave him the impression that she had seen a ghost. “What happened?” He tried to sound concerned.

“I think there’s somebody in Grandma’s trailer,” Misty said alarmed. “The door is open and I’m sure I closed it when I came over before.”

“Okay, calm down, sweetheart. Let me take a look for you,” he said trying to allay her fears. He grabbed the nearest weapon, a long black storm umbrella with a faux wooden handle, and cautiously marched over to Grandma’s trailer.

Sure enough, the door was ajar pouring light from the adjacent kitchen area. He carefully opened the screen door which screeched unnecessarily considering he had just recently oiled the hinges. “Stay here!” He told Misty who stood frozen several feet behind him, her nerves on edge.

Leading with the tip of his umbrella, his heart racing, he slowly nudged the door. He knew every inch of the trailer, its layout identical to his. He first looked to his left to the kitchen and the hallway that led down to the back of the trailer. Clear! He said to himself like the cops on Crime Patrol performing a protective sweep of the premises.

Not seeing anything unusual, he gave the door a big shove and looked to his right, his umbrella en garde at the ready to skewer the intruder. There was no one in the living room.

As he proceeded to the hallway, he grabbed a bad-ass-looking chef’s knife from the knife block on the kitchen counter. The first room was Misty’s. The bed was made, covered with a pink, floral bedspread and a collection of stuffed animals. A pair of white panties lay at the edge of the bed, probably the one that Misty should have worn when she stopped by his place moments before. That meant she was still butt naked underneath her skimpy miniskirt. He was tempted to swipe the panties. He shook his head. This was not the time nor the place to engage in kinky thoughts.

He walked to the open bathroom door. Again, clear. No dripping faucet, either.

The door at the end of the hallway to Grandma’s bedroom was closed. The adrenalin in his body spiked. The palms of his hands were sweaty. His heart hammered in his chest. He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob while holding firmly onto the knife. He stepped back, pushed open the door with his foot until it hit the inside wall, and waited for a second.