He saw her little bush for the umpteenth time. Roe always forced himself to focus on her bush, cause the fat pussy, sitting so moist and ready underneath, screamed that it was worth the risk of getting his black ass killed, just for a taste . . . a sniff. She was eating ice cream, something so usual in the summertime. But it was chocolate this time and the color made Roe feel more positive about his chances.
The heat was making it impossible for the kid to keep from making a mess. It looked like she had given up the fight for cleanliness a long time ago--the ice cream dripped out of the cone, down, as it did many times before, between her chubby little tits. And she always went out with those two things so hilariously exposed behind a white tank-top, and a crappy, cheap-looking bra that was way to tight for what she had, and way too sheer for a kid her age. Roe imagined that most nineteen-year-old girls of the day probably didn't have much of that "how to be a lady" in them. And her stubby, pink and bursting nipples made him nod to a lack of education.
Summertime was also kind enough to keep the kid in flip-flops all the time, every . . . single . . . day. She always wore a different pair, the uniqueness told by the sandal's thongs and their varied colors. They were maroon this time in particular, stuck between her little big-toes, the toenails pink, never clashing, never matched. It was a sign of maturity--that ability to recognize the benefit of contrasts. But the girl was still young-minded enough to keep a silly hook of coordination going between both pairs of her lips.
The ones on her face had been done ridiculously--messy, some lipstick remaining on the tip of her nose, other bits of it melted, racing down in pink streams, flowing over chocolate rivers, out of her mouth, down her chin, leaving artistic stains on her tank-top. Nasty little bitch, she looked so clean everywhere, but seemed to get off on being dirty, offending anyone who cared too much about cleanliness. And the mess that was dripping between her breasts had somehow managed to make it through the absorbent obstructions of her top, sneak past the rim of her jean-skirt and reveal itself, in oh so slowly moving streams of candy and cosmetics, running over the left lip of her pussy.
It was something Roe would have never expected to see in such a nice neighborhood. The kid had to have been at least Middle-Class, but the massive WholeMart, looming mountain-like in the background of everything was probably too much of a draw. Why travel far to pay top dollar for clothes that might not look as good without the underwear on? She liked that cheap, made in China, ten-cent laundromat only, quick to tear attire. Roe saw no yuppie spread-eagled before him. The kid just wore what worked for her . . . probably, for anybody looking in her direction.
And that brought Roe's eyes straight to her pussy. He thought he'd become such an expert at voyeurism that he could take a bit of time gazing without letting all the other adult travelers at the bus stop notice what his eyes were focused on. It was a white neighborhood, and even though America had moved so far away from Old South rules, a thirty-something year old Negro still wouldn't look too great to the random eye if he got caught checking out such young girls.
But damn, her pussy looked good enough to get hung for. It was one of those worked-pussies, tightly closed off business hours, but bulged from within, still swollen from the dozen or so dicks that left their supplies inside. The pussy looked ripe, like the ripest fruit--the farmers picking the best for the crowds, but leaving the greatest for whoever saw the tree.
Roe quickly glanced around the bus stop to see if anybody was watching him watch the girl. There were about ten people sitting, standing around, focused on their phones with either eye or ear. He would've liked to have been a rebel in the crowd, the only one holding that ancient thing called a newspaper--the kind made of paper--just like back in the good old days, when the dead-tree's rustling made being an anonymous pervert such a challenge. But Roe thought his black skin was retro enough. So he carried a mini-tablet around to fit in while keeping his eyes satisfied.
And he was glad for the distracting device as there was a woman sitting quite close beside him. She was being more than nosy, giving Roe vibes that he would've appreciated months earlier, but were now just slightly annoying. What else mattered with his true interest sitting so close, so far away on the bench opposite him? The woman was doing that foot fetish thing--taking quick glances to see if he was watching her dip the foot of her crossed leg, in, out of her heels, sometimes leaving the stockinged toes fully exposed. And those toes looked expertly done, the nails clear and clean, with white tips cut to a mathematical accord, three rings adding some shine. It was a gorgeous display from a woman of years, so flirtatious for a stranger, but still a classy boast of her and her pedicurist's attention to detail.
Roe almost felt sorry for the woman, because with all her obvious structure, she was still no match for Sammy--the slobby, nineteen-year-old little slut who'd probably have trouble spelling the word class. Roe remembered when he was close enough to the kid, when he peeked down while standing behind her, that beautiful day when the busses were short and passengers had to make due with less rides going in more directions. Sammy wasn't even close to womanhood--she was a girl that just did it her own way: her toenails were cut with zero accuracy, some too low, others too high, the nail polish itself plastered in small areas over the soft skin of her feet.
