Chapter 1

So there I was, sitting in my pick-up, eating a sandwich and scribbling my random thoughts on a legal pad.

The small lake front park was, and is, one of my favorite lunch spots, because it is located near my workplace, and next to an apartment complex for low income people. A project, if you will

On any given day, if the weather was even a little decent, there would be anywhere from a dozen to thirty or so kids from about six years old, up to 'old enough, playing or watching 'B-ball.' More than half were usually girls.

Black girls.

All shapes and sizes, needless to say.

Jumping around, running, standing around, all for my visual enjoyment.

Yeah, I like looking at black girls, and scribbling my fantasies down on my pad

I said that already? Oh. Sorry.

Anyway, I don't bother to try and hide, or anything like some pervert, or rapist, or child molester or any of that shit, I'm right there, almost every day, in plain sight, writing my thoughts.

They all know I'm there, watching them play. Most of the moms, grandmas, or whatever guardian type, know I'm there, too.

There have been more than a few occasions that one of the older kids would come up and ask me what I was doing, as they observed me scribbling away at my pad.

I tell them I'm writing a book.

A couple of the girls have been bold enough to ask me what kind of book, and I tell them it's a romance novel.

What?

Pr0n is romance. Don't believe me? Go to wally world and pick any romance novel at random off the shelf. Buy it, (don't steal, stealing is not nice) and read it.

Yeah, yeah, they use nicer words, like 'bosom, ' or 'breasts, ' instead of tits, but it's still pr0n.

"No, I can't tell you what it's about," I tell them. "No, you can't read any of it, until I sell it. Then, I may just bring a few copies down here for you."

Yeah right. Like I'm gonna let them read about how I stretched their little pussies or assholes out. Or pierced their clits and tits so I could leash them. Or tying one down, over a bench and charging twenty each to all comers.

Anyway, like I said, I enjoy watching the kids play.

Of COURSE I was fantasizing about what I'd like to do with the girls. Duh! I thought I'd made that clear, by now.

I remember a few weeks ago, one of the younger girls, about eight, or so, saw me eating some potato chips with my lunch.

Bold as brass, she walked over and asked me for some. Now this was a first, and I really didn't want to be seen giving anything to any of the kids. There was no way I'd maintain my blatant un-suspiciousness, if I did that.

I told her that I'd be happy to give her some chips, but only if she went and got her mom or dad to tell me that it was okay for her to have some chips, and okay for me to give her them.

"I got no dad," She stated, "I'll go an' get my momma." Then she ran off.

I just shrugged, thinking, "That's the last I'll see of her," And went back to my favorite pass-time, checking out a girl that looked to be about seventeen.

Ah, yes. About my height, thin, but not skinny. light complected, but not sallow looking. Nice enough tits, somewhere between an A and B cup. Yes, a nice mouthful.

As she went after the ball, I noticed that she had exceptional legs that went all the way up and made an ass of themselves. And, my, what a delectable ass. No explosion here, just a nice heart shape that I wanted to cup and fondle and whip for days.

I jotted these notes down on my pad, and let my mind wander about the humiliations and punishments I'd inflict upon her when she failed to follow my instructions.

Those long legs would look oh SO good tied into a six foot spreader bar, forcing almost a complete...

"Whatchoo tellin my li'l girl?" a voice interrupted my thoughts.

Yeah, I jumped a bit. Okay, I about jumped out the window on the other side.

When I turned to see who was talking, I saw a twenty five-ish black woman, with real nice tits. When I managed to rip my gaze from her chest to meet her eyes, I saw she had a smirk on her face. Whether from my perusal of her marvelous chest, or my reflexive leap across my truck, I don't know.

I glanced down, and saw the chip girl from earlier, and put one and one together, (math is sometimes hard for me).

"Told her to get you to tell me it was okay for me to give her some chips, when she asked me for some." I said. "I didn't think she'd actually go and get you."

I shrugged my shoulders, and continued, "I come here for lunch, a lot, and I don't need anyone thinking I'm trying to entice any kids. I expected your daughter to just run off and play, after I told her that she had to get you."

She looked at me a moment, then asked, "So you ain't no sicko honkey tryin' to get my li'l girl to do things with you?"

I pasted a pained expression over my face, and said,"Hell, no, She's just a kid! I like tits on a girl." as I let my eyes fall to her wondrous rack. Then I tried to look embarrassed, and said, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that.

She just laughed at me, and said, "I'm Latannia, and My girls' name is Tawanna. You can give her chips if you want. What they call you, anyway?"

"Scribbler," I replied, thinking how great Latannia would look in stocks, with belled nipple clams attached to those splendid tits, while I played tic-tac-toe on her ass with a riding crop, or just gag-fucking her, while I pinched her nipples.

Hey, what can I say? It's who I am to think these things.

"Scribbler, huh?" She asked with a bit of skepticism.

"Yeah, I write lousy stories," I responded. "I fit the definition."

After another appraising glance, including leaning through the window to include my crotch in her perusal, Latannia nodded, and turned to walk away.

"So, can I have some chips? asked Tawanna.

"Sure, just like I said," I replied, grabbing the bag and holding it out the window.

Tawanna reached in and grabbed a hand full, then said, "Mommas tits are nice, ain't they?"

I smiled to cover my shock, and said, "Yes, they are, but you should run go play, now."

That girl needed a cock shoved down her throat, just to shut her up.

After thanking me again for the chips, Tawanna ran off to sit with her friends on the bench next to the basketball court, and munch on her handful of potato chips. There was a lot of whispering and giggling going on...

I resumed checking out the fine teen cooze in the area, and noticed a girl sitting apart from everyone else. I noticed her, because she was staring at me.

She was seated under a big oak tree, that was just far enough away that I couldn't tell much about her, except that she had the darkest skin I'd ever seen, and gold-green eyes that seemed huge and glowing at this distance.

Of course that's when my cell phone chirped to let me know lunch was over, and I had to get back to work.

It figures.

Tawanna would come up to me every few days to beg chips off of me and to chat.

I learned a lot of useful information about her and her momma from those conversations, and I'd make use of that information one day. But that will be another story.

Last Friday I asked Tawanna about the very black girl that always sat under the oak tree, beyond the court, and always seemed to be watching me watch the other girls.

"That's Dainna, she's weird." Tawanna told me.

Weird?" I asked.

"Scary. No body hangs with her, and her eyes, they like green and gold, like a cats eyes." She explained.

"Wow," I replied, "that sounds neat."

"Nah, she don't be cool," said the little girl. "Strange, like I said." Then Tawanna ran off to sit with her friends.

All of that was to bring you up to today, where I'm sitting in my truck, eating my sandwich and scribbling on my pad.

The light rain coming down, and the chill temperature meant that none of the usual eye candy was out and about, so I had nothing to distract me as I wrote about the things I'd like to do with Tawanna and her mom.

Suddenly, the passenger side door was opened, and a girl in jeans and a hoodie hopped in, pulling the door shut behind her.

I gasped, and nearly jumped out of the truck, but I got myself under control, after a major flinch.

Yeah, yeah, I know, you're thinking "What a pussy." You just go ahead and think that.

I stared at the girl, but I couldn't tell who she was, because of the hood pulled over her head, and because she was sitting turned a little bit away from me, hiding her face.

"You're Scribbler." a husky contralto voice stated.

Her voice made my dick hard.

"Yeah," I replied, "And you are?"

"You wrote those stories about Theresa?" she inquired.

Uh oh, busted...

"Yeah, that's me." My nervousness was probably evident in my voice by now, but she didn't seem to notice.

Still hiding behind her hood, she paused for a moment, then asked me, "Are you Don?"

I sighed, still fearing where this might go. I'd never had one of these kids in my truck, before. I didn't want to be accused of enticement or kidnapping. Just the accusation would ruin my life.

"No," I said, "Don is just a character in a story. A figment of my imagination."

"Oh," she said.

Then she turned to face me, and those huge green / gold eyes, looking out of the darkest face I've ever seen almost hypnotized me.

"I was hoping you were really Don."

That snapped me out of my trance, so I asked her, "Why?"

Looking away, and down, as if ashamed, she said very softly, "Because I can relate to Terri, and because I need a master."

Oh, shit.

OH SHIT!

Thinking furiously I asked, "You're Dainna, right?"

"Day-EE-na," she said, making it three syllables instead of two. "But it's spelled d-a-i-n-n-a."

"Okay, Dainna, so what do you want with me?" I asked.

Keeping her eyes on the floor, she quietly said, "I read your stories on the web, and, well, I was..." She hesitated, and then, after a deep breath, she continued in a rush, "I was hoping you'd take me, like you did Theresa."

I was stunned, to say the least.

I was now also frightened.

This kind of shit doesn't happen to me.

This was the stuff of fantasy, not real life.

The story she'd referenced had been nothing but a fantasy. I'd written it after seeing a young mother slap her three year old daughter, knocking the girl to the floor.

I was too much the coward to say anything at the time, so I wrote the story to ease my conscience.

To buy time for thinking, I said,"So you read my stories?"

"Yeah," Her reply was more a sigh than spoken.

"On the story site? Or on the repository?" I asked. My mouth was running on auto-pilot, while my brain was gibbering about looking for an escape.

"The story site."

"Did you read my blog, there?"

"Some of it. Why?"

In my fear, I got a bit angry. "Because I made it very clear that I'm married. That the stories posted there were the ones my wife thought were good enough for me to post.

"That they were just stories. And that D/s, or BDSM was dangerous, and probably should stay just a fantasy.

"For me, at least."

I was breathing hard, almost yelling at the poor girl who evidently had been smart enough to put a few clues together, and connect me with some stories I'd posted on the int3rwebz. My anonymity, it seemed was not as secure as I'd supposed.

Shit.

Quiet sobs were coming from the other side of the truck, as I perused those thoughts.

Shit, again.

Shit, shit, shit.

It deserved to be said aloud.

"Shit," I said, calming down, a bit. "Dainna, please stop crying.

The tearful young woman turned her sorrowful, beautiful eyes to me and said, "If you don't take me, I don't know what I'll do. I'm clean, no diseases. I don't do drugs, and I'm not pregnant.

"My mom is going to jail, and we're being put out of the apartment. If I have to live on the street, I'd end up a crack whore, just like my mom. I don't want that. Being a slave would be so much better.

"Please, take me. I'll be your housekeeper, your hoe, your nigga bitch, your slave, whatever you want. All I'd ever ask, is a place to sleep, and something to eat.

"I'll do anything you said, and I mean anything!"

As I sat there, listening to her torrent of words, I was totally at a loss for what to respond. My witty repartee, it seemed, had gone for a stroll, without letting me know. Me. An AUTHOR, at a loss for words. Who'd ever have thunk it?

Finally, I couldn't stand Dainna's tearful, yet hopeful visage, any longer.

"I'll have to ask my wife," I said, averting my gaze in shame.

Lame? Oh, you betcha. but that was about the best I could come up with at the moment. And I'm NOT stupid.

I know that some folks think my thoughts and fantasies are sick, but my wife always seems to enjoy reading them.

There was no way I was going to do anything about this girl without my wife's help and concurrence.

"Do you have a number I can call you at?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, and rattled off a number, which I automatically wrote down on my pad. "But I only have about ten minutes left on it. It's a pay as you go cellphone."

"Okay, I'll give you a call, after I talk to my wife," I said, staring into Dainna's eyes. Hopefully, she'll have an idea about how to handle this."

Dainna stared at me a moment longer, then lunged across the truck seat, and kissed me. There was no tongue involved, but it was a passionate kiss, none the less.

The alarm on my phone started chirping, and Dainna broke the kiss.

Reaching for the door handle, she looked back at me and said, "Anything."

She got out, closed the door, and started walking across the courts, towards the apartments.

What to do, what to do, I mused to myself, watching her walk away.

There were so many things wrong with this situation...

I started the truck, and drove back to work for the rest of my day, trying to figure out which of my few options would cause me the least grief.

Finally, as I pulled into my parking spot, I came to the conclusion there was only one thing to do.

I called the boss.

"Hi, Hon," I said when she picked up the phone. "You're not gonna believe this, but..." And I laid it all out, just like I did here.

After I'd related the story of my day, the silence across the line was deafening.

"Honey?" I queried.

Nothing. I looked at the phone's screen, and it showed I was still connected.

"Honey?" I said, again.

"Give me her number again." My wife said, without any emotion I recognized.

I gave her Dainna's number again.

"Scribe," She said with a sigh, "I don't know if I'm pissed about this or not. I don't know if you did good or bad. I'll talk to this girl, and call you back, so don't leave work until I do."

"Okay, honey. I'll wait for your call. I don't know from good or bad, either. That's why I called you.

"Get back to work, Scribe. I love you." And she disconnected.

"I love you, too. I told the phone.

I was able to do my work, in spit of the worries running around my scull.

And trust me, those worries were serious.

For me, at least.

Did I screw up not just tossing Dainna out of my truck and running away?

Is this going to screw up my marriage?

Yeah, I wrote stories based on my fantasies. My wife has enjoyed reading them, and even said I could post a few for others to enjoy.

But I never involved myself in those types of behavior in real life.

I'm no Dom. Hell, I'm so ordinary and average that a friend once suggested that I could disappear in a crowd of one.

Yet, this exotic girl had read one of my stories, connected some dots, and jumped straight to a wrong conclusion.

I've been monong...

Monago...

Shit.

Faithful to my wife since before we were married, 28 years ago.

Sure I have fantasies. That's where these pages of wandering thoughts come from. But if my dick got wet, it was always in my Honey.

And Dainna. What would become of her if I -WE!- didn't take her in? Would the dark skinned beauty really end up a crack whore on the street?

Probably.

Shit. My dick was getting hard just thinking about her beautiful face.

As another author's character has said, "Treacherous organ."

I didn't have much of an idea what her body looked like. Every time I'd seen her before today, she'd been sitting too far away for me to tell anything other than she was darker than her own shadow.

And those eyes...

Today, she'd had that hoodie on that covered her rather loosely and thoroughly. No way for me to evaluate...

Damn, what the hell am I getting myself into? My wife is going to cut my nuts over this. This is real! not a story out of my imagination.

This girl wants a master. Some one to own her, and be responsible for her. Or, at least, that's what she claims...

Shit! What if she was setting us up to be robbed or killed?

What if someone here at work finds out I took a girl that says she is a slave to me and my wife?

I'd be fired for sure!

In this climate of P.C? A white guy keeping a black girl sure as hell would be construed as racism. Tolerance, my white pimpled ass.

Damn! what if...

-Ring-

I jumped when the phone on my desk dragged me out of my worries.

I grabbed the handset and identified myself, and my wife said, "Call me on my cell in fifteen minutes.

Glancing at my watch to note the time, I said the two most important words for a man in any marriage, "Yes, dear."