Do you think some people are born evil? That's what our pastor says sometimes at church. That some folks are just born with a devil inside. Sometimes I think I'm that way. I have some strange ideas, I know that, some weird thoughts and I don't know exactly where they come from or why. They're bad, some of them, but I'm not sure if I'm really evil or not. I just don't know.
I saw the man I wanted to marry at the Payless shoe store at the mall. He was older than me, old enough to be my dad probably. I didn't see any kids though. It was his wife that got my attention first. She was pretty loud, in a mean way. She wasn't much to look at, well, I have a hard time finding anything attractive about white women anyway, but some of them are okay looking. Mostly it's a personality thing.
This woman was kind of mean looking. Tall and big hipped, a big round butt and thick thighs. Not real fat mind you, just big, and if she wasn't careful she was going to be fat, and not too far in the future neither. She had a little belly already, not a big one, but a little roll going on beneath her tits. They were neither large nor small, but just there and even with that clunky bra she was wearing, which looked more like a back brace or something under her blouse, her boobs had some sag starting already.
Kind of a dirty blonde woman, you know what I mean? She had frizzy split ends and didn't know how to wear her makeup. She was a typical white thirty-something housewife to my eyes. She'd gotten married to the first guy who fucked her probably and now she was living with it and trying to make him pay. She really talked down to the man too, like he was a child.
"Sit right there, Harold," she'd say, "and don't move until I'm done buying my shoes."
That kind of thing. No respect at all and the man was taking it too. He probably just put up with it because it was easier than seeing her really mad. White women. They want the whole world on a platter, I swear. I don't know why men marry them. I can almost see why a guy would fuck one; I mean that might be okay. Everyone knows white girls make pretty good whores, if they start young enough, but marriage? Living with that for the rest of your life? That's a pill waiting to be taken, you know?
And Harold wasn't a bad looking guy for being old like he was. Of course, I have to admit that I have a serious thing for white guys and I don't know why. Maybe because the sweetest fruit is the one you ain't supposed to eat, like the pastor says. I like the temptation though, and I like giving into the temptation even more. That's part of my evil thoughts, my bad devil inside peeking out. White guys are my weakness. I just love them too much and that guy, he was tall and kinda stoop shouldered, but that was the weight of his wife's attitude, I was sure. If Harold was with a wife who appreciated him, he'd be upright and proud, and that was the man I wanted to see.
He had a full head of brown hair and a pleasant face, a smiling face, and that was probably another reason his bitch of a wife stomped him down. He was just too nice inside. Harold wasn't a bad guy at all and good guys don't know how to deal with women, everybody knows that. Sometimes you have to put a woman in her place and that doesn't come from me or the devil, that comes from the Bible like the pastor says. A man is the head of his house and a woman's gotta respect that. So long as he's doing right, working hard, taking care of his family and being a man, well, his wife has to remember her place and when she forgets it's a husband's duty to remind her.
The problem with a man like Harold is he's just got a big heart. A big ol' forgiving heart and he started letting his wife get away with disrespecting him. He gave her an inch and she took a mile and it's his fault, I'll give you that, but damn, I sure couldn't send a man to hell for being too kind and generous, could you? Hell was where Harold was living and I could see it plain as day. His handsome face was a mask of woe as he sat there, nodding at every venomous word his wife uttered.
He even pretended not to notice when his wife, being the typical white slut she was, flashed the boy helping her try on some shoes. Harold saw it though, the way the woman would spread her thighs so that pimply faced shoe boy could see all the way up to her curly gates. Harold saw it because his wife made sure he was looking when she did it. I didn't know if she was doing it to see if Harold would say something out loud, or if it was because the woman knew he wouldn't. Either way, I'd had enough.
I'd picked Harold and it was time to marry him.
Now, you may have guessed that I'm a black girl. I'm a very pretty black girl too. I'm popular and smart and I have a lot of friends, black and white. I live in the upper Midwest, so we have our problems like anyplace does, but it isn't like you're thinking maybe. There's no inner-city in our town. No Compton or Rodney King or Million Man Marches stuff. It's Minnesota, okay? We have a whole bunch of Norwegians and a bunch of Vietnamese fresh off the boat, and a bunch of black people, all trying to survive the blizzards.
Well, that might be a little simple, but anyway, I'm only fifteen. But everyone thinks I'm older, which is kind of nice. It would be nicer if people thought I was twenty-one, then I could go clubbing, but mostly they think I'm seventeen or eighteen usually. If I say that I'm a senior in high school most people, strangers, they don't even bat an eye, and I feel grownup too, that's the thing. I don't talk or act like I'm a high school freshman. I talk like a normal person. I like talking.
I'm tall, almost five foot seven, which is a couple inches taller than my mom. I was a little worried for awhile that I was going to be even shorter than her, but one day ... Zoom! I was looking her in the eye and a week later, looking down at her. But not looking down on her, no way! My mom's righteous and I love her. I might be taller than she is, but I'll always be looking up to her, you know?
I have black hair, and it's kinky yeah, but I comb it out and get it permed so it's more straight and falling around my shoulders. It looks good like that. I have a heart shaped face and big brown eyes, caramel eyes to go with my dark brown skin. Red lips, I got lucky there, and they aren't too big, but full and pouting when I need them to be. When I pout the world stops to fix what's wrong ... sometimes. My daddy does anyway. I have great teeth, since my dad's a dentist; I was born with a silver toothbrush in my mouth. That's one of his jokes and I know, it isn't all that funny.
My boobs are great! I was so happy when they started growing and then they got big, you know, B cups like overnight when I was fourteen, and so when they stopped growing, I was seriously relieved. See, in junior high school, big is good, but too big? That's not good. People look at you funny, so for me 32B cups are awesome, and they're firm and nice and I love my boobs. Lots of people do and my butt too. I have a nice round one, not huge like some girls I know, but it's firm and pert and I like to show it off.
Cause I got the devil inside me, remember? Probably that's why I'm so hot ... sorry.
Anyway, I was dressed for showing off on this day. I was looking for a man like Harold, truthfully, and so I'd dressed for it. I wore a nice sweater, a peach colored one because it really looks nice with my brown skin. A pleated skirt, short so it showed off my long legs which are really toned from cheerleading, even though I'm just on the junior pep squad this year. Some ankle socks and little boots. I like boots more than shoes, and they're cute with leather straps and one inch heels. My parents won't let me get any real high heels or anything and even an inch is kind of daring so far as Daddy is concerned.
I looked really good and a lot of guys were checking me out as I walked around. None of them knew I was fifteen cause this mall is like on the other side of town, and Minneapolis is a big town, so these were like White Bear Lake people and ohhh ... We hated their high school. They always had good teams. Anyway, so guys are checking me out, black guys especially cause I'm a sister, you know a 'phreaky eaky sistah', and I don't play that game. I live in Eden Prairie, the closest we get to talking like that is playing GTA on Xbox, you know? But the guys love talking smack and it's kind of sad that our racial identity has migrated away from the visceral literacy of Dr. King to gangsta rap and MTV.
So I ignore the black guys totally, they just don't attract me at all. I'm fine, I'm hot, I'm all that and a stack of twenties, whatever that means. I ignore it and tease the white boys. That gets my motor running, seeing those white high school boys and preppie college guys, all blonde and blue and handsome and white ... My little fifteen year old pussy is dripping, I swear to the Blessed Virgin. I love white boys. And their dads! I see a hot kid, like sixteen, walking towards the sporting goods store or something with his dad, the two of them looking alike and talking and ouch! I just want them to take me home!
That's my one fantasy, my jilling off in my bed at night fantasy, being in a sandwich between some white boy and his dad. Being their little black fuck toy, letting dad show his son how it's done, junior! Sinking his big white cock inside my tight little pussy, sucking my ripe titties until I'm screaming. Then the boy takes his cock, long and hard and virgin, this boy never had a girl in his life, he takes his cock and pushes it inside my mouth, shutting me up good, while his dad fucks the daylights out of me. He's going to cum inside me too, send my black teenage ass home with a white baby growing in my belly. That ... Oh boy! That one gets me off.
So that's what I'm doing at the mall, checking out the white boys and looking for a man to make me special. Not just that though, and it brings me back to Harold: I want to make him special. That's what I really want more than anything. I want to take a white man and show him how a real woman treats her husband. I want to show his ugly white bitch of a wife how a black girl, just fifteen years old, can be the real wife her husband deserves. I want to teach the slut a lesson and see her on her knees learning it.
A white woman, a wife like Harold's, and this is just my opinion, ought to be punished for her behavior. That means not just watching her husband make real love with a beautiful young black girl like me, but being forced to service the two of us. I want the wife right there, ready to do whatever it takes to show how worthless she really is. Whether it's sucking the sweat off her husband's balls while he fucks me, or sucking his cum out of my pussy when were done, or maybe serving us breakfast in bed after a long hard night of interracial loving, I want that bitch in her place.
Like that one in Payless. She doesn't deserve Harold and she's got no right treating him that way, especially not in public. A white woman like her, a housewife who owes her happiness to the man she married, well ... She ought to be taking better care of herself for one thing. For another, she ought to be shopping for his pleasure, don't you think? When I get married, I want my man to tell me what kind of shoes he likes on my feet. What kind of dress he wants me to wear. What kind of underwear to buy. I want a husband who's going to dress me the way he likes, whether it's prim and proper modest or super slutty sexy, or a little bit of both. I want him happy and in charge.
Harold could be that sort of man, I was sure of it. Any man could be, so long as he had a woman to support him and not beat him into the ground with her selfish ways and greedy intentions. I guarantee all it took was a couple mean words, maybe some cruel comment in front of a friend or a group of strangers, to humiliate her husband. Harold, having a big heart and a loving disposition didn't make a fuss, and that just urged the woman on. That was Harold's fault, he needed to put a stop to it and take that white slut over his knee but good. A woman isn't ever too old for a spanking according to the pastor, so long as she's a wife or daughter, or even a little sister maybe, depending on circumstances, and I agree with that a hundred percent.
So does my mom and dad and they've been happily married twenty-two years now. My mom gets her spankings and she thanks my daddy afterwards, just like I do, and my sisters too. He's just doing what he's supposed to, fulfilling an obligation that comes with being a man. Me, being hard headed like I am though, well my daddy has to spank me a lot and if he knew I was cruising the mall for white guys, he'd whip me good. My parents think I'm a virgin, but I've been fucking since I was old enough to figure out how to do it. Since before I got my first period even, and it's always been with white boys cause my devil loves that hard white cock. She's particular that way.
"Oh, Harold, stop your whining! Can't you see I'm busy?" the woman was saying. "I swear! I can't take you anyplace!" She looked down at the shoeboy, who looked all of seventeen as he was putting her foot in some God awful brown box of a shoe. "I don't know why I married him!"
The boy had the common courtesy not to say anything, although I didn't care much for his laughter. Harold certainly didn't deserve that. He was a customer too and I had half a mind to complain to the manager.
"Hi," I said, standing close to Harold and holding a pair of shoes that I thought looked nice. They were some open toed pumps in red with one inch heels, so I could actually buy them if I wanted too.
"Uh..." Harold blinked at me and so did his wife, and the boy at her feet who actually drooled a little as he looked up at me. I thought that was rather gross, but I wasn't paying him much mind anyway.
"I need a pair of shoes for the upcoming homecoming dance..." I started saying.
"Ummm..." Harold said.
" ... and I think these might be okay," I explained. "But I sorta want a man's opinion before I buy them."
"Oh." Harold nodded and he looked from my face to my shoes, which I held just below my breasts in that tight peach colored sweater, and then he looked slowly back up. His eyes were hazel and I smiled into them.
"So, um ... what do you think?" I asked. "Should I try them on for you?"
"What are you asking him for?" Harold's wife looked at me like I was crazy. "He doesn't work here!"
"Because he's a man," I said, staring into Harold's eyes and they were so pretty, "and I need a man's opinion."
That straightened Harold up, just a little, but it was noticeable. His shoulders came up and his chin too, and a tiny smile crossed his lips. He was like a puppy dog that had been kicked too often, it seemed to me. Not that I'd ever call a man like Harold a dog, not at all, it was just that sort of feeling I got. A man like that just needs a little attention, a little honesty, that's all.
"I'm Stacy," I told him and I dropped my eyes, just a little because a proper girl should be shy and modest when she introduces herself to a man.
"Hmmm..." Harold cleared his throat. "Hi, Stacy."
"Look, first off, don't you go asking Harold what kind of shoes you ought to buy," his wife just wouldn't shut up. "He hasn't got any fashion sense at all..."
"I'm wearing a red dress for the dance, so I think I need red shoes," I spoke over the top of the woman, not loudly, but Harold could hear me just fine. "What do you think?"
" ... and second of all, he's my husband and he doesn't need to be talking to likes of you!"
"Dear..." Harold flushed pink at his wife's outburst and it was embarrassing for all of us, even the drooling shoe boy as he groveled for a peek at my panties.
"Don't you 'dear' me, Harold! Shame on you! Talking to a girl like ... like ... like that!" the woman scolded the poor man and if that had been my mother talking like that to my father, she wouldn't have sat down for a week afterwards!
"A girl like what?" I asked her, narrowing my eyes. "A young girl? A pretty girl? A friendly girl? Exactly what kind of girl am I? A ... black girl?"
"What? No ... I didn't say that!" White people were so predictable. "I only mean..."
"What's wrong with her?" a woman interrupted, a white woman mind you, but one who clearly had better manners than Harold's wife.
"Huh?" Harold's wife looked around.
"She was only asking for the man's opinion," the woman said, and then she turned to me. "I think those are lovely shoes."
"Thank you, ma'am," I smiled at her.
"It's people like you who give us all a bad name," the friendly woman scolded Harold's wife and I wasn't exactly sure who 'us all' were, but it didn't matter.
"I didn't mean because she's black!" Harold's wife protested, but other people were looking at her and whispering and shaking their heads.
"I'll try them on for you, okay?" I smiled at Harold and ignored his wife.
"Sure, that would be, uh, very nice," he nodded, sitting even a little straighter now in his chair.
"Harold!" his wife protested, but he was ignoring her too, mostly because I was sitting on the carpet at Harold's feet with my legs drawn up close to my butt so I could change shoes.
I knew he was getting a nice deep look up my toned, brown thighs, probably all the way up to my white lace panties, and they'd be hard to miss the way I was spreading my legs. I shouldn't have been doing that, I know, but it wasn't a real sin because I wasn't married, not yet and not like Harold's wife who was flashing her panties at strangers right in front of her husband. If Harold was my husband I'd never do that, not in a hundred million years. Unless he wanted me to.
I put those red shoes on, smiling up at Harold while his wife sputtered and moaned and simply made herself look like even more of a bitch than she already had. Everyone knew she was a racist now, which she maybe was or maybe wasn't, it didn't really matter. Harold wasn't. He liked me just fine and he wouldn't have cared if I was turquoise the way he was smiling. I was the prettiest girl he'd seen in a long while, maybe ever, and getting all my attention the way Harold was, made him a little forgetful of everything else.
"There!" I wiggled my eyebrows at him and stood up slowly, standing there in those cute red shoes, smoothing my pleated skirt. "What do you think?"
I walked around a little for him, turning this way and that, walking away so he could see how they fit me from behind and then towards him, so Harold could see them from the front. I even wiggled my toes for him, which are cute and brown and painted pink because I like pink toenails. My fingernails are red mostly, but sometimes they're pink too. That day they were red though.
"Those are very nice shoes, Stacy," Harold decided. "I think they're perfect for you."
"Really?" I smiled at him, my very best smile, and took a deep breath, pulling my shoulders back just because I felt a little swollen with pride right about then.
"Oh yes." Harold swallowed hard and I knew he could appreciate a young woman's pride just fine. It made my nipples itch the way he seemed to look right through my sweater and even my bra, like he was imagining my hard black nipples just waiting to be kissed and licked and nibbled by a nice white man like himself.
"Harold," his wife warned him and she was standing up by this time, literally grabbing the man by the collar. "We're leaving."
"Hey, um, can I ask you something kind of ... personal?" I asked Harold as he was pulled reluctantly to his feet by his wife.
"Personal?" Harold tilted his head a little.
"Personal?" the woman stared at me and she looked ready to say something stupid again.
"Uh-Huh," I nodded, holding my old shoes behind my back and twisting on my hips slowly.
"Sure. I guess so," Harold glanced at his wife and she was too busy frowning at me to notice.
"Would you like to take me home?" I asked Harold and he stared at me for a long second and then two.
"Do you need a ride?" Harold finally said. "Where do you live?"
"Harold!" His wife wasn't happy with that answer at all. "We're not giving some strange girl a ride anyplace!"
"Not my home," I giggled playfully. "I mean your home!"
My daddy would have a fit if I took a ride from a stranger, even a nice stranger like Harold. He'd really throw a fit if I brought a white man to our house, not to mention a white bitch like Harold's wife. Not because my dad doesn't like white people, all his friends are white, I mean they're all dentists and partners and friends and patients, you know, but they're all white too. It's just that bringing a white man home from the mall so I could have sex with him, well, I think any fifteen year old girl's daddy would have a little problem with that, don't you? It would be way better to fuck him at his house.
"What?" Harold asked and it sounded like he'd swallowed a frog.
"What did you say?" Harold's wife was like a bad echo. "Why you little black whore! You little nigger slut..."
"Oops!" I made a face at that, since the only one who can call a black person a nigger is another black person, or Eminem maybe. Harold's wife definitely didn't qualify on either count and now she was in trouble.
"Excuse me?" A black woman, a large Oprah-off-her-diet black woman, was just looking for trouble like that.
"We better go," I said softly to Harold and I kicked off those red shoes, leaving them where they lay as I took his hand in mine.
"But ... my wife..." He was looking over his shoulder as Oprah was putting a big brown sausage finger in Mrs. Harold's face and reading her all sixteen chapters of the riot act.
"She can take care of herself..." I smiled at him, walking quickly in my bare feet and pulling Harold along behind me. "That's what I like about you."
"Uh ... what?" Harold was actually smiling, now that we were away from his wife and half running through the mall. It was fun.