Somali neighbors
This story is about my black Muslim neighbors and their secret desire for white cock.
All characters are over eighteen and exist only in my head; any resemblance to real persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
NOTE 2: I am Swedish and I am doing my best. Please be nice to me and understand that it will NOT be grammatically correct, and some small misspellings are to be expected; instead, please look at the whole picture.
AND, PLEASE rate and comment; I seriously want to know what you think.
Steve
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Main character.
Me, Steve, 45 years old
Isniino, 47 years old, Somali Muslim living next door
Caaisho, 19 daughter to Isniino
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It was a need that my white 52-year-old trophy wife couldn't provide me with - no5 even my 25-year-old daughter.
It all started so innocently. It didn't even seem wrong, standing there watching her.
She reached blindly for the bottle of sun oil, held it over her dark stomach, and allowed the clear liquid to trickle slowly onto her smooth young skin. When a small pool had formed she started to work it over her body and I was fascinated by how the combination of her dark glistening skin and the fall of sunlight emphasized the shape of her different muscle groups.
I continued to watch as her hands moved slowly upwards until she was massaging her breasts and it took a few seconds to dawn on me that her touch was now more delicate. She was no longer working the oil into her skin; instead, her palms seemed to be gliding over the shallow mounds.
In order to avoid being detected, I willed myself to take a step back from the window, however, I remained rooted to the spot, where I watched her fingertips gradually come together to pinch the teats of her covered nipples delicately. As she did so I felt cock start to fill up.
I hardly drew breath for the next minute as I watched her teasing herself.
She concentrated on her breasts but, every now and again she moved a hand down to draw lazy circles over her covered pussy.
The temptation to slip my hand into my robe and jerk my semi-hard cock was too powerful.
I found myself wondering just how far she would go. I suppose I was fascinated by her free spirit, my wife could never have touched herself in that way in such an open space even if she knew that no one else was around.
As I continued to watch, she arched her back slightly and held her stomach in. This created a slight gap where her bikini hugged her waist and her fingers, as though surprised at finding this opening, began a tentative exploration.
I watched as the back of her fingers bulged the blue satiny crotch and it was almost as if I could feel the touch on my own body.
Her hand moved lower and I caught the briefest glimpse of dark pubic hair before the elasticated waistband trapped her wrist. Her movements were lazy, unhurried, as she stroked her oiled fingertips over her mound and I could hear the coursing of my blood in my eardrums as I stood unnaturally still in a silence broken only by the courting of insects.
I must have been there for more than ten minutes as she continued to maintain an easy rhythm and I wondered just how far she would take it. It would have been easy to believe that she was falling asleep, so languid were her movements, but then, at last, she gently arched her back and shivered into a long, lazy, orgasm. As her body made tiny erratic jolts, I shot my load into an empty glass.
When it was over her body relaxed once more and I was forced to retreat in haste as her head lolled my way.
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So on Monday a couple of days later, I sauntered over to visit my neighbors, bearing a bottle of quietly red wine.
Dressed reasonably conservatively but informally in jeans and a t-shirt, I waited after knocking twice.
A curvaceous, busty big-bottomed, dark-skinned forty-something African woman opened the door, and looked surprised.
I had heard that they were Muslims, but the few times I'd seen the older and young girls leave the house, none of them had ever worn a burka or whatever the other garment is called.
"Hi, I'm Steve, your next-door neighbor. Welcome to the neighborhood!"
"Hi," Isniino greeted, "My name is Isniino."
"May I come in?" I asked, inspecting the woman's face up close and personal for the first time.
She was pretty, but she had heavy bags under her eyes. So she was probably older than Inga, my Swedish trophy wife.
"Um, My husband is not home and I don't think..." the Muslim woman said.
"Yeah, and then there's that," I said and stepped in.
"Ok, sir," she said hesitantly closing the door behind her. It was completely forbidden for a Muslim woman to be alone with a man and.... in the same room??? Alone. NO.
But this was America, and I felt that you come here, you adapt to our rules and customs.
I followed the wide-butted okay-looking older lady into her living room, wishing women from her culture wore clothing that didn't conceal all their curves.
Truth is, I sort of love big women.
They often don't receive as much attention as the slender women do, so they are often more submissive, and way louder in the bedroom... as if they especially appreciate the extra attention they are unused to receiving. And they always try harder to be pleasing.
I could already imagine grabbing those wide hips and slamming my hard cock into both her likely hairy cunt and her never-before-fucked asshole. Yet my words were much more civilized;
"I love what you've done to this place."
"It's a work in progress," her hostess smiled since not everything was exactly how she wanted it.
I later learned that she was a bit of a perfectionist, and utterly ashamed that her house was not in mint condition, especially if a white man visited them, and I had forced my way in...
"What amazing artwork," I said, impressed by all the beautiful pictures hanging on the walls. "Where are these paintings from?"
"Somalia," Isniino answered. "My husband is very proud of our country's artwork, and he brought many pieces from our homeland.
"Is that where you are from?" I asked, noting that she had black pantyhose on under the cloth she was wearing, which I didn't think Muslim women usually wore. How narrow-minded of me.
"Yes, My husband spent five years here in Florida, and then he finally got a promotion, and brought us here," she explained.
"And how long ago was this?"
"Two, no almost three years ago now."
"Wow, your English is superb," I said.
"Thank you, our daughter, Caaisho, studied in an International English school from she was 10, and I learned from her."
"Amazing, and how do you find the seasons here?"
"Ahhh," she agreed. "We don't have summers and winters in Somalia, but we do have a couple of rainy seasons each year. But with an annual rainfall of only around two inches, even those are hardly noticeable... just some very brief downpours. I'm looking forward to seeing snow, my husband says to us, that we will go to Rock Mountain."
"Rocky Mountain," I said with a smile, and then I felt stupid.
