He looked at the christian teen facing him, sat on his settee. She was evidently aroused, doubtless enjoyed regular DIY time alone at home about black guys but because she was a good church girl had stayed pure possibly; in all probability was still a virgin. It may well have been his imagination but it did look to him that she had actually hitched that skirt up, to offer him a generous view of her beautiful, long white legs and as a result of the way that she was sat, her silky smooth inner thighs and he was also offered a sight of her white knickers. He did not want to conspicuously stare up there but he believed that she was actually wet!

White girls do not change, even christian church girls.

He also noted that her inexperience couldn’t be any more obvious. She continually watched him as she displayed herself, seeking evidence of his interest in her with quick glances at his crotch. Now not wearing the protection of her blue checked shirt, she flaunted her 34C breasts, already swelled with excitement, pulling her shoulders back and allowing her taut, deep pink teats to press against the thin material of her half cup bra and camisole top. Her neck coloured. She almost spilt her tea. He attempted to relax her; he wanted to manage her carefully. If handled expertly, he could secure and cultivate her like the other acquiescent, productive english women he had supplied to his community.

She realised with alarm that her fantasy of submitting to the wishes and demands of an African or Asian man was really an illustration of an elemental part of her. Her body’s reaction to being alone with a black man for the first time in her life, even merely a middle aged, friendly, non-predatory black man serving her tea and biscuits demonstrated for her the shocking reality; she absolutely craved African and Asian men. All those evenings she had spent alone, naked, enthralled, breathless, exhilarated, soaked with pussy juice, her breasts proudly exposed and puffed out, her fingers lovingly caressing her bumhole; her nipples, tugged, squeezed and swollen with longing to have a Somali, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Nigerian Muslim sucking, feeding, suckling on them; a thick towel or her teddy bear, squeezed between her legs, pushed onto her throbbing, swollen, puffy, bulging pussy lips and legs crossed to deliver to her the most incredible, devastating and overwhelming ecstatic frenzy-all this was not merely the actions of a teenaged virgin girl discovering her sexuality, this was her innate and bottomless longing for interracial rapture.

‘Are you alright, my love?’

Abigail jumped and jerked out of her trance, embarrassed. She had been staring at the man, deep in her admiration of him, engrossed in her own thoughts. She closed her legs and stuttered about this and that, desperately attempting to discuss anything; she wanted to talk about something ordinary to blank over her mortification; she had been staring at him!

He recognised that he was in control and so asked her about herself, her family, her ambitions, her church and how she came to be delivering the envelopes. She relaxed and began to chatter, the way eighteen year old girls tend to do when speaking about themselves.

He said that he was grateful to have someone to talk to and she said that she was delighted to have made such a kind and sweet friend.

Abigail, although her breasts and nipples still demonstrated her state of arousal, relaxed and enjoyed her cup of tea and ate several delicious chocolate biscuits. She crossed her legs and he savoured the view while she talked.

He knew of her college, he knew many Somali guys studied there.

‘You are a beautiful girl my love, have any Somali students asked you for dates, have any of them been lucky enough for you to say yes?’ He asked it in such a way that couldn’t help but tell him everything, she admired them, many were very attractive and she was indeed very drawn to them, and yes, she would love to have a Somali boyfriend one day. He smiled sympathetically, when she admitted to him however that she was intimated by their potency and assurance and she was extremely nervous about joining the other white girls in ‘belonging’ to a Somali boy.

She said that she hoped that he wasn’t annoyed but her father had a dislike of Muslim men, and so while she admired Muslim men, she had never told him about this.

He smiled and reassured her; racism is a male English trait, not female. Her pretty face shone with relief that this wise and wonderful man understood.

She forgot how she had displayed herself to him, spreading her legs for him sat facing him and taking off her baggy blue checked shirt for him. He rejoiced in her passion for the manhood of Somalia and he was far too experienced in English women to note that she wasn’t nervous about making known her high regard for him.

They spoke about his wife, how long she had been in hospital and how he coped alone.

He was lonely.

Abigail would love to visit and chat, if he would like that.

He would.

She’d do anything for him.

‘Oh my sweet girl, there are things that cannot be done!’

‘Honestly, I’d do anything for you.