"Fucking animals!"
One black after another. Apparently some famous basketball player with a good reputation (Bull shit!) had raped some poor innocent white girl. After that was a story about the black snipers going to trial. Following that story, a black woman had been arrested for leaving a child alone in her house for two weeks after being arrested for something else. And two of these animals had the nerve to run for president!
Heather didn't normally watch the news. She found it much too depressing. It was always showing how blacks were dragging this country down. Not that her husband was a saint, he was overly fond of beer and had a gambling problem, but he had never raped or killed anyone. Luckily, he had quit gambling six months ago, but he still drank his beer every night. The six pack Frank drank nightly no doubt contributed to the disappearance of the six pack on his stomach over the last five years since they'd graduated high school. His six pack abdomen had been replaced by a lump of pale, shaking flesh.
Heather was worried that if his paunch kept growing, he might not be able to get his entire 5 inch pussy plower into her. She'd loved his dick back in school and had seen a lot of it then, but for each of the four years they'd been married, she was seeing less and less of it. When she did get some, she was usually left disappointed enough that she had to finish herself off alone in the bathroom. Lately, she felt there was something missing in her sex life.
Heather thought her husband was an idiot. Any man married to a hot bitch like her should be fucking her twice a day. Heather hefted her breasts and winked at herself in the mirror that covered the wall across from the couch. She hadn't turned the tv channel because she was painting her toes, sitting naked on the couch except for a thong. She applied the red polish to the small toe on her left foot just above a silver ring. She put her ankle bracelet back on then sat back to let the polish dry while more criminals with black faces appeared on the news.
Sick of the news, she turned to stare at herself some more. What the fuck was wrong with Frank? I was the hottest girl at Nathan Bedford Forrest High, she thought. The nearly nude body reflecting in the mirror belonged to a Fredrick's of Hollywood model, a stripper, or a porn star. Long reddish-blond hair covered her head, surrounding bright green eyes and lips painted to match her toenails. Her skin was milky white, smooth, with no blemishes except for the occasional freckle. Large, firm knockers topped her chest. They were so perfect, they should of been fake. Her boobs were capped by nipples the color of pink roses and the diameter of fifty cent pieces. Frank used to joke that they were so pointy, they'd poke his eyes out. Her stomach was flat and surrounded by a thin tapered waist. Her thong was light blue and with her legs propped up on the coffee table, she could see the outline of her pussy lips through the tight material as well as a little wet dot in the center. Remembering all the fucking she and Frank had done in high school had her feeling a little horny.
No woman should look this good, she thought. Heather's closest friends and rivals in high school were now, fat, haggard looking women with screaming brats sucking on rapidly sagging teats. Thinking about Frank and her friends had her amazed that someone's body could change so much between 18 and 23. No doubt, if Heather had been a mommy, her body would be as fat as her friends, but her husband had a sperm count so low it was nonexistent. Their doctor had been flabbergasted. Frank's semen was practically crystal clear and until seeing the doctor, Heather hadn't known that semen was supposed to be milky white. Frank's problem had finally been traced to a childhood illness. If they were to have children, they'd need to adopt and so the unused room in the trailer sat empty except for trash bags filled with Frank's beer cans.
There was a loud banging on the door.
Heather jumped startled. She wiggled her toes and decided the polish was dry. She grabbed a pink halter top and pulled it on over her head until the playboy bunny was nestled between her knockers. Her swollen pointy nipples were clearly visible through the stretched material.
The banging came again. The pounding was so hard, it shook the trailer.
"Hold your ass. I'm coming," yelled Heather. She grabbed small, gray, cotton shorts and pulled them on. Black lettering spelling the word, BITCH crossed the two perfect globes of her ass.
Her visitor pounded on the door again.
Heather checked herself out in the mirror. The bottoms of her breasts were visible under the halter and the stud in her belly button sparkled. The shorts rode low on her hips and the straps of her thong were visible crossing each hip. Damn sexy, but then she liked to show off her body.
"Open up," yelled the visitor pounding on the door continually.
"Gawd dammit," growled Heather finally pulling the door open. "What?" she asked the hard, perfect male chest she was staring at. The chest was encased by a tight, white tee shirt. She followed the tee shirt to the arms whose biceps were as big as her thighs and gasped when she saw that her visitor had dark black skin. "What do you want?"
"How'd that worthless husband of yours get a fine piece of ass like you?" said the black man. He was actually handsome with a crew cut and goatee, but looked like a thug with tattoos on his arms and a do-rag wrapped around his crew cut.
"What do you want?" she asked again. Heather was wondering it she could slam the door shut and pull the chain. Would it even keep out a man so big? It was too late though, the man was already pushing himself inside.
"Where's Frank? That dick you're married to, owes me money and said he'd pay me back today."
Heather felt a pit form in her stomach. Frank was gambling again and they were flat broke. To keep from staining her coffee table, the nail polish was sitting on a growing pile of second notice bills. She'd always known his fondness for playing the ponies would hurt them in some way. "What are you going to do?"
"Kick Frank's white ass if I don't get my money. Damn!" The black man said the later because he was taking in Heather's outfit or to be exact the body under the outfit. "That lazy man of yours is dead meat if I don't get my money. Worst employee I fucking have."
"You're Samson?" Heather crossed her arms across her chest, embarrassed that his gaze was hardening her nipples.
