Shemale’s Big Black Cock

“Thanks for stopping by,” the very pretty black woman, my new next-door neighbour, smiled, inviting me into her new home… the former home of my best friend who’d moved to Oklahoma for family reasons a couple weeks ago.

“No problem,” I smiled warmly, hoping she was going to be someone nice and worth getting to know. This was a gated community, and the majority of the women living here were stuck-up bitches who wouldn’t give me… and now her, I was certain… the time of day.

Most women here had never worked in their lives, because they came from very rich families.

I, on the other hand, had ended up living in this pretentious community after working my whole life as a secondary school teacher and receiving a surprise inheritance from a student I’d taught years ago. I was her home room teacher for all four years, which meant that officially I was also her counselor, and she’d taken full advantage of my services. Not that I’d minded, the poor thing. Her parents’ divorce in her freshman year had devastated her, and her father’s death a year later had crushed her spirit all over again. To make matters worse she was a lesbian, and that was still pretty much unacceptable in the late eighties and early nineties, especially in the conservative south (crazy how little it’s changed since I left over twenty years ago). But she’d graduated and moved on to far better things, until after a couple decades she passed away unexpectedly from an aneurism. At least she’d gone quickly, and her abdominal pain at the end was brief. We’d kept in contact a little during those twenty years, and she’d once sent me a very moving and rambling letter of gratitude, describing my support of her during her tough high school years, and how much it still meant to her; in her opinion, if not for my loving support and my wise counsel (her words), and my shoulder always being there for her to cry on, she might have committed suicide at several points; so she felt she owed me her life. I always thought she was overstating my virtues, but her gratitude was sincerely meant, which meant a lot to me. After acing college she’d gone on to create a few medications that were key breakthroughs in cancer treatment (her dad had died of cancer during her challenging high school years… alone after the divorce since she lived with her mother… all of which broke her heart, but also provided her with a fierce dedication to her cancer research), and she became very rich.

She didn’t marry.

She didn’t have kids.

Her mother had passed a few years ago, and she was an only child.

So she left me with a rather large inheritance… five million dollars.

But since mine wasn’t family money, most residents of the stuck-up community saw me as beneath their notice. I didn’t care; I didn’t want to be anything like them anyways.

However, I soon did attract the notice of my snobby neighbors, but not in a good way; in fact they were mortified. My scandalous crime was that I continued working, finished my Masters in psychology, and now had the affrontery to conduct sessions from my home… and thereby was committing an additional offense by welcoming so-called undesirables into this rich utopia. They had taken legal action… twice… to try to stop me from conducting such a seedy business (counseling) in the community, and I’d recently heard they had hired a big time lawyer to see if the third time was indeed a charm.

That said, I was already considering moving away from here. My daughter was eighteen and leaving for college in Cambridge Massachusetts after the summer holidays, and I was thinking of following her there.

There would be nothing left for me here.

My daughter gone.

My husband having passed away eight years ago from a heart condition he didn’t know he had until it was too late. Which was ironic, since my friend and benefactor had died more recently in such a similar way.

So, yes, I was rich. I was also frugal with my money, and had invested well and almost doubled my money in the last few years.

My primary goal was for my daughter never to be in need. She also had inherited a nice chunk of money when she turned eighteen from a trust fund her father had set up for her, that would easily pay for all seven years she planned to attend Harvard. True, she had a full ride scholarship, she was a very smart girl, but the living expenses in Cambridge were crazy high.

Anyways, my new neighbor I was visiting asked, “Can I get you a coffee?”

“Yes, please, black,” I said and then paused awkwardly.

“It’s okay to have your coffee black,” she smiled, dressed very elegantly in a flower-patterned light-weight dress because of the heat wave we were suffering through, and surprisingly considering the weather, mocha coloured hosiery that I had to admit made her black legs shine. She added, oddly, in a tone I couldn’t understand the purpose of, “All things black are delicious.”

I thought of dark chocolate, which was the colour of her skin, and had to agree.

Did I mention she was the first black woman in this gated community? Ever?

It was scandalous. ‘There goes the neighbourhood,’ and other offensive sentiments were being bandied about the community.

She was also the youngest resident ever. Twenty-five. Her husband was a high-end lawyer. Her family fit the financial level requirement of the community, but not the unwritten and fortunately unenforceable racial one. She, on the other hand, was a masseuse and, like me, would soon be polluting our pristine community with the undesirables (such as middle-class people) patronizing her home business.

“Thanks,” I laughed awkwardly, “I’m afraid I’ve been living in this 1950s suburbia too long.”

She smiled, “There does appear to be a lack of colour here.”

“Including you and your husband, there are two. And in case it needs saying, I’m delighted you’re here.”

“Thanks; it’s good to be among friends. By the way, my name is Kimberly,” she said, offering me her hand in a normal way, unlike the dainty pinky-finger bullshit of the community.

“I’m Fran,” I responded.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“You too,” I said, feeling something about her that made me comfortable. She wasn’t pretentious. She was just a plain folks woman, like me.

“You’re the first one to stop by,” she said, as she poured our coffees.

“No one from the welcome wagon?” I asked, even though it didn’t surprise me. They’d come to me reluctantly with a standard goody basket, set it down on my porch, rang the bell and left, but I was at least white, so I was better than Kimberly and her husband.

“Not unless you’re the welcome wagon,” she shrugged.

“More like a fellow pariah,” I joked, but also wanted to give her a warning.

“My husband and me because we’re black and I’m young, and you because you don’t come from family money,” she described our situations correctly.

“Yep,” I nodded.

“Even though Hamilton and I earned our money.”

“Scandalous!” I said mockingly. “I hope you haven’t told anyone!”

“I know,” she laughed, and I felt an instant connection and knew I had a new ally in my fight against the aristocratic bullshit of the community.

We went outside to sit under an awning and to dangle our feet in her pool because of the heat, chatted like old friends and from that day on started getting together out there for daily coffees.

A few days later she surprised me by asking who were the most racist women in the community. I rattled off the top five, not even needing to think about it, and she jotted them down.

I wondered why and asked, “What are you planning to do?”

“Start a revolution,” she answered, which was about as vague an answer as one could give.

I also met her husband Hamilton and he was a very good looking, friendly man, the word affable described him well, but it was pretty clear early on that Kimberly wore the pants in the household… although she never actually wore pants. What she did wear, always, were very lightweight summery dresses that allowed the cooling breezes through. What those breezes also did very frequently was to drape the fabric of her dresses closely against her curves, revealing that she never wore a bra. I tried not to notice, but with her voluptuous curves, that wasn’t always easy. However, it was a good idea, and since it was just the two of us, I began going braless myself, and enjoying the cool breezes lightly wafting across my bosom.

Kimberly was an amazing woman, but it was obvious she wasn’t someone you wanted to fuck with (unless you did it literally; and then it would probably be fabulous). Shit, why was I thinking like that?

We were having cocktails in the early afternoon by her pool a couple weeks later when she asked, “So, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” I shrugged.

“Have you gotten laid since your husband died?”

I choked on my drink. Out of all the personal questions she might have asked, this one had never entered my head.

“Sorry, I’m a very blunt woman,” she said, as she tinkled a summon-your-servant bell, which I imagine she’d learned from her appraisal of some of the other women in the community.

“No, I haven’t,” I answered, as I encountered the first of many shocks that would occur over the next hour.

“Yes, Madam?” a beautiful blonde in a maid’s outfit approached Kimberly from the house.

“Please bring my friend a drink,” Kimberly ordered.

“Yes, Madam,” the maid nodded and turned to me. “What may I get for you, ma’am?”

“A lemonade, please,” I requested, still shocked at what I was witnessing… this upside-down authority would rock the community to the core if it was known about.

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