‘Hello love, I hope you’re happy and well-how old is your baby and what is baby’s name?’ and he walked around the counter to see-then Zaid beamed exultantly; the tiny little baby, he looked no more than a month old, was clearly Somali and contrasted triumphantly with his white mother, the baby had smooth dark brown skin, only a degree or two lighter than Zaid and big brown eyes and he already had thick curly black hair. She recognised the Somali joy her baby provoked; though it embarrassed her and caused her to blush their delight that she, a pretty white teen had bred a Somali baby fanned the flames of her sexuality. She was however, intensely sorry to have caused her christian family and her church such discomfort and sadness, so trying to avoid betraying this confusion of feeling, she pretended to look at the magazines on the wall, ‘he is four weeks old-he’s called Yusuf’.

Smiling at the baby, while Zaid would never dream of taking another Muslim guy’s woman, he was envious that it hadn’t been him who had fucked and impregnated this tall, magnificent, delicious redhead.

Then he realized what she had said; Yusuf-perfect, a Muslim name, but his intelligent, searching eyes fixed upon the gold Christian cross around her neck. Then Zaid stretched to look at her delectably shaped bottom flaunted by a short, clinging skirt and he thought it the most delightful he had ever seen. She looked at him and self-consciously fingered her cross necklace understanding Zaid’s unspoken question. Though she assumed that the shopkeeper was probably married too, old enough to be her father and though one married Somali guy had already used and then dispensed with her, if the shopkeeper wanted to have her, she feared that wouldn’t be able to deny him anything.

She decided that she had to chat to him however; she needed Somali friends, her baby boy was always going to spark interest in them and contrary to her family’s pleading she had surrendered to the father’s requirement that she raise their son as a Somali Muslim.

And despite her misgivings, she had an overwhelming craving for a commanding and subjugating Muslim man.

Zaid wondered if her bush between her legs was copper coloured too.

‘I am Zaid’ and gave her his hand, she shook it. ‘Your beautiful son is Somali? His daddy is from our community?’

The mother blushed at Zaid’s directness though her embarrassment was mixed with an awakening sexual arousal that this handsome Somali was creating in her. Should she tell him that she had been a willing christian slut for a married Muslim Somali man older than her father? She was uncertain what to say to him, and saved by Judy who came back into the shop, without her knickers presumably as instructed. ‘Look Judy at this handsome little chap’ and then to the young mother, ‘I wish to be friendly always and so wish to be with you, if you ever need help or advice, or need anything, especially if you are new to the area, Zaid is here for you-you are a single mum?’

No Somali would allow his wife to display herself in this way.

Zaid’s eyes probed the young mother for an answer to his questions. She knew he wondered and guessed about Yusuf’s father.

Then Judy bent over for a closer look at the tiny, beautiful black baby, and envying how his mother had become a mother told her ‘Your baby is beautiful-I wish I had a baby like him!’, then, seeing her bottom stuck out in the air Zaid caught a momentary glimpse of his knicker-less assistant’s cunt as her crumpled, scrunched-up skirt was pulled up; pink, beautiful lips spread in need of cock; he had to mount her, Zaid had an intense urge to have her. His cock was now an unyielding ebony cannon stretching up out of his underwear.

The teenage mother didn’t see the cunt-it was visible only for a split-second but she did see an unmistakable blob of thick, gooey semen on Judy’s inner thigh; clearly the Somali had recently shot his load; the tall pretty redhead’s need for Somali treatment prevailed over her church upbringing, if there was any chance, any prospect of this black man coveting her she had to demonstrate acquiescence-she had to risk the possibility of disclosure and criticism of her unchristian behaviour; she apprehensively glimpsed flirtatiously at him, slowly ran her tongue along her lips, lightly ran her fingers across her full, heavy nursing breasts, rubbing her protruding, dark, nipples through the thin material of her blouse and then deferentially bowed her head, her heart thudding, praying that she had enticed him and not offended him.

Before we discover how Zaid reacts to this young mother’s attempt to tempt him, (and also Judy’s reaction, don’t forget that she had drunk greedily her first load of Somali sperm from Zaid that morning, will she fear the newcomer securing the rights to him from her so soon?) let us learn how a teenage, middle class, english christian girl living with her indulgent parents and younger sister became the single mother of a black, Somali Muslim baby now living in an apartment in an area predominantly inhabited by immigrants.

Abigail James had volunteered immediately when the priest in her family’s churched announced during the Sunday service that they needed people to call on people’s doors to collect donations for African orphans. Abigail was a faithful christian and her parents were proud of her and her younger sister; they were both a credit to their family and their church.

Abigail had had her eighteenth birthday two months earlier and despite being a most attractive girl, tall, almost 5 feet 10, slim, beautiful big brown eyes and long strikingly vibrant copper coloured hair, and boasting a very shapely firm ass and ample full breasts, she was still a virgin; many guys admired her, pursued her, masturbated about her and intended to possess her but Abigail was frustratingly resistant to their efforts to secure her, much to her father’s delight.

The volunteers who were to collect on behalf of the church were to leave small envelopes with people and then call back a couple of days later when they had hopefully had some placed money inside. Abigail set out one Saturday morning to cover her ‘patch’, it was a small housing estate with a relatively large number of bungalows; the minister had specifically given her one of the more genteel areas. A good man, he did not wish Abigail to encounter the wrong sort of man particularly when she was serving the church; he had suggested that she take her younger sister, Elizabeth or a friend with her, Emma perhaps, or Mary? But no, Elizabeth had been moody recently, Abigail didn’t want her spoiling the day, far better to deliver her envelopes alone and anyway, Emma and Mary also had areas to cover (sweet but rather plain girls the minister didn’t feel quite so anxious about them).

The minister wasn’t aware indeed nobody was, of the passion that Abigail nursed deep within. It was a secret between her and her password protected laptop. The bedroom ardour she had for this ‘activity’ was matched however with her resolution that it had to remain a dream or a fancy.

Abigail dressed in a white camisole sleeveless top underneath a loose blue check shirt with a pleated white cotton mini skirt and went about her area distributing her envelopes, a few friendly people invited her in for a chat and though somewhat shy she did pop in and when she left-she only stayed a few minutes to explain who the money would be given to-in each house or bungalow the people were left with the same impression; that Abigail was a kind, sweet pretty church girl who was a credit to her family.

Some of the men also pondered on her beauty and allowed themselves a few minutes private fantasy mounting Abigail doggie-style or throat fucking her sweet red lipsticked mouth, while they pretended to read their newspaper or listen to the radio.

The small detached bungalow at the top of one street looked lovely, the gardens were beautiful and the property was evidently cared for and with some imagination too. Abigail knocked at the red painted door. A smiling black man, Abigail guessed his age between 55 and 60, answered the door.

Abigail explained why she’d called and the man asked in perfect English but with a foreign accent if she wanted to pop in, he was just brewing some tea, and did she want some? Abigail instantly said ‘yes, please, that would be very kind, sir’ and followed him in. She was surprised that a black man lived here; they tended to live within their own community. She was delighted too, her secret fantasies and the websites that she accessed each night all involved interracial sex, always with dominant black, Arab and Asian men taking pleasure in submissive, obedient white girls. It took all of her willpower to refuse the black, Arab and Asian guys at college but she knew that these guys were increasingly accumulating the other english girls and often ‘owned’ (yes that was the word that was used at college-‘owned’) more than one english girl each. However much Abigail was turned on by this, she was extremely nervous about getting involved with such assertive, persuasive guys, particularly when they were almost exclusively Muslim.

Her father and the men at church harboured an animosity towards Muslims. Abigail didn’t share this animosity, far from it, the orgasms she enjoyed alone in her bedroom or her bathroom always involved black or brown Muslim men using her, but her fear of her father’s displeasure helped keep her away from them.

The man went straight into the kitchen and called back ‘sit down my love, make yourself comfortable. It’s nice to have someone to chat to, my wife is in hospital you see and I’m alone talking to the plants and the walls.’

Abigail sat on the luxurious settee and realised that she was sexually aroused merely by being alone with a middle aged, inoffensive black man in his home. He was old, probably old enough to be her grandfather but she decided that she certainly would befriend him; she might even be able to visit him occasionally, being neighbourly of course. He was lonely, after all. She pictured in her mind’s eye, his flaccid but heavy, thick black cock, supported by his underwear.

She wondered if he found her attractive, she ran her hands down her legs. She had shaved them and they were beautifully smooth and her short pleated skirt hopefully, if he sat facing her, would allow him a good view of them and possibly, just possibly her white knickers if she pulled it up a tad and spread her legs a little. Her nipples had become stiff, erect and would be darker in colour-she had observed and been delighted by, the change in their appearance in her bedroom mirror while touching herself watching a blonde girl on her knees suck an Arab man’s cock- they were straining against her bra and clearly protruding against her camisole top, her pussy began to moisten and her breathing quickened. She wondered if she could have an orgasm just sat there and then realised that she was being silly. She was certainly aroused however, she wished that he could see her swollen labia colouring and parting, inviting him in her.

She then decided to take off her baggy shirt, it was warm and it was not unlike a jacket, well, perhaps. She felt safe with the old man, he wouldn’t pursue her as the guys did at college, and if she excited him a little, then there was no harm in that. His wife was unwell after all. He needed some respite. If he did find her attractive, he would hopefully have an erection, if she was able to look, without embarrassing the old man, she should be able to see it push against his trousers.

When he returned from the kitchen carrying a tray on which was two cups of tea, some sugar, some milk and biscuits, he immediately noticed the beautiful white teen with good sized breasts, now just wearing a tight sleeveless white top, against which erect, stiff nipples were clearly pressed and a pleated mini skirt which would, when he sat on his chair, give generous views of her long, gorgeous pale white legs and probably more besides if she didn’t cross them.

Abigail beamed and thanked him adding that she was grateful for the attention and she was very pleased to meet him.

He wouldn’t be like the black guys at college, she was safe with him, she could flirt, enjoy herself with him without fearing that he would seduce her.

She noticed a print on the wall; she realised that the man was Muslim. Her breasts swelled with delight. Tonight, alone in her bedroom, her body would be soaked with capitulation to this black, Muslim master.

He said a silent prayer, it was a few years since he had seduced and impregnated an English woman before setting her up in what had proved to be a loving, happy and fruitful marriage to a devout and grateful fellow Somali. He had thought that at 68, that buxom blonde, was it really five years ago, had been the seventh and last. As he sat down and enjoyed the shape of Abigail’s prominent breasts under her top and her knickers-white knickers-under her skirt, he began to consider this redheaded church girl, unmistakably sexually aroused; could he, at his age, seduce and persuade her to submit to the Somalia and willingly contribute to the growth of their community and faith?

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