My Somali Neighbors

This story is about my black Muslim neighbors and their secret desire for white cock.

All characters are over eighteen and exist only in my head; any resemblance to real persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. 

Main character.

Me, Steve, 45 years old
Isniino, 47 years old, Somali Muslim living next door
Caaisho, 19, daughter to Isniino

---

It was a longing that my beautiful, fifty-two-year-old white trophy wife, despite all her charms, had never quite managed to satisfy. It wasn't necessarily something I could explain, even to myself. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps the desire for something different, or perhaps it was simply the dangerous excitement of wanting something I knew I shouldn't.

It all began so innocently. At least, that was what I kept telling myself afterward. After all, what harm could there possibly be in looking? I wasn't doing anything wrong, wasn't approaching anyone or making inappropriate advances. I was merely standing there, admiring the view. Or so I convinced myself.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon when I first noticed her. She was relaxing beside the swimming pool in the neighboring backyard, seemingly without a care in the world. She was a young African woman with extraordinarily dark skin, a deep, rich complexion that seemed almost luminous beneath the afternoon sun. I had seen plenty of beautiful Black women over the years, but there was something particularly striking about her appearance. Her skin was so dark that it created a remarkable contrast with the pale poolside furniture and the sparkling blue water.

I'd heard through the neighborhood grapevine that a Muslim family had recently moved into the house next door. Apparently, they were originally from Somalia, although I knew practically nothing else about them. I'd occasionally noticed people coming and going, but we hadn't yet had the opportunity to introduce ourselves.

The young woman was stretched out comfortably beside the pool, enjoying the sunshine in the privacy of her own backyard. From where I stood, I could see her occasionally adjusting her position, reaching for something beside her chair, or glancing lazily toward the water. There was something wonderfully peaceful about the scene, and for a few moments, I found myself watching her almost absentmindedly.

Then I realized I'd been standing there considerably longer than I'd intended.

I should have turned away. I knew that perfectly well. She was in her own backyard, after all, entitled to her privacy without some middle-aged neighbor staring at her from a distance, but she was stunning. Her natural, unfettered breasts were obviously heavy, and I guessed at a large, cupped thirty-four inches. Her waist was thin and her stomach flat, but she had the flared hips common to women of the region. Her long legs were toned, neither too fat nor too thin, and I would be prepared to bet that she was a keen sportswoman.

Curiosity and a perverted longing to fuck a hot black woman had already taken hold, and instead of walking away, I lingered and felt myself get revved up by the exotic sight.

Looking back, I suppose that was where the trouble really began. Not with anything I said or did, but with that first seemingly harmless moment when curiosity quietly began turning into fascination.

She reached blindly for the bottle of sun oil and held it over her dark stomach, letting the clear liquid trickle slowly across her smooth, youthful skin. Once a small pool had formed, she began rubbing it over her body. I found myself fascinated by the way the sunlight caught on her glistening skin, highlighting the contours and definition of her different muscle groups.

I continued to watch as her hands moved slowly upwards until she was massaging her breasts, and it took a few seconds to dawn on me that her touch was now more delicate. She was no longer working the oil into her skin; instead, her palms seemed to be gliding over the shallow mounds.

To avoid being detected, I willed myself to take a step back from the window; however, I remained rooted to the spot, where I watched her fingertips gradually come together to pinch the teats of her covered nipples delicately. As she did so, I felt cock start to fill up.

I hardly drew breath for the next minute as I watched her teasing herself.
She concentrated on her breasts but, every now and again, she moved a hand down to draw lazy circles over her covered pussy.

The temptation to slip my hand into my robe and jerk my semi-hard cock was too powerful.

I found myself wondering just how far she would go. I suppose I was fascinated by her free spirit; my wife could never have touched herself in that way in such an open space, even if she knew that no one else was around.

As I continued watching, she arched her back slightly and drew in her stomach. The movement caused the fabric of her bikini to shift, leaving a small gap between the waistband and her skin.
I watched as fingers bulged the blue satiny crotch, and it was almost as if I could feel the touch on my own body.

Almost absentmindedly, she slipped her fingertips beneath the edge as she looked around to see if anyone was watching her, but she was completely unaware that someone actually was watching.

Her hand moved lower, and I caught a brief glimpse of dark pubic hair before the elasticated waistband trapped her wrist. Her movements were lazy, unhurried, as she stroked her oiled fingertips over her mound, and I could hear the coursing of my blood in my eardrums as I stood unnaturally still in a silence broken only by the chirping of insects.

I must have been there for more than ten minutes as she continued to maintain an easy rhythm, and I wondered just how far she would take it. It would have been easy to believe that she was falling asleep, so languid were her movements, but then, at last, she gently arched her back and shivered into a long, lazy orgasm. As her body made tiny erratic jolts, I shot my load into an empty glass.

When it was over, her body relaxed once more, and I was forced to retreat in haste as her head lolled my way.
______

So, on Monday, a couple of days later, I sauntered over to visit my new neighbors, carrying a bottle of quietly respectable red wine.

Dressed reasonably conservatively but informally in jeans and a T-shirt, I knocked twice and waited.

The door opened, revealing a curvaceous, dark chocolate-skinned African woman in her forties, with a full bust, generous hips, and a beautifully rounded figure. She looked genuinely surprised to find me standing on her doorstep, her dark eyes widening slightly as our eyes met.

I'd seen the two women coming and going; both of them wearing a burqa or any of the other traditional garments I vaguely associated with Muslim women. I wasn't particularly familiar with the different styles of Islamic clothing, so I couldn't have named them anyway.

She was dressed in a long, loose-fitting gown that fell almost to her ankles, its soft fabric draping naturally over her full figure. It was simple and modest rather than fashionable. A lightweight scarf partially covered her dark hair, framing a striking face with high cheekbones, full lips, and warm, expressive eyes. Despite her modest appearance, there was a quiet confidence about her, a natural grace that made her rather captivating.

For a brief moment, we simply stood there looking at each other, neither quite sure what to say. Then her expression softened into a polite, slightly hesitant smile, and I realized I'd been staring a little longer than was appropriate.

"Hi, I'm Steve, your next-door neighbor. Welcome to the neighborhood!"

"Hi," she replied with a polite smile. "My name is Isniino."

For the first time, I was able to inspect her face up close. She was pretty, although the heavy bags beneath her eyes suggested that she hadn't been sleeping particularly well. She also seemed older than Inga, my Swedish trophy wife.

"May I come in?" I asked.

"Um... my husband is not home, and I don't think..." the Muslim woman began hesitantly.

She hesitated for a moment before stepping aside.

The moment I crossed the threshold, I noticed the smell of the house. It was warm and unfamiliar, filled with scents I couldn't immediately identify: spices, incense, something sweet cooking somewhere deeper inside. It was distinctly different from my own home, and somehow the smell made the place feel intimate and lived-in.

"Yeah, and then there’s that," I said, stepping inside.

"Okay, sir," she replied hesitantly, pulling the door closed behind her.

I could sense her discomfort immediately. From what I understood, being alone with a man who wasn't her husband was deeply frowned upon in her faith, and now here we were: standing inside the same room. Alone.

But this was America. In my mind, moving to a new country meant adapting, at least to some degree, to the customs and expectations of the society around you. I wasn't about to make a big deal of it.

Still, as she stood there awkwardly by the door, I couldn't help wondering whether she felt she had crossed some invisible line simply by letting me inside.

I followed the wide-bottomed, okay-looking older lady into her living room, wishing women from her culture wore clothing that didn't conceal all their curves.

Truth is, I sort of love big women, not extremely fat, but tall and Zena, Warrior Princess types.
They often don't receive as much attention as the slender women do, so they are often more submissive, and way louder in the bedroom... as if they especially appreciate the extra attention they are unused to receiving. And they always try harder to be pleasing.

I could already imagine grabbing those wide hips and slamming my hard cock into both her likely hairy cunt and her never-before-fucked asshole. Yet my words were much more civilized: "I love what you've done to this place."

"It’s a work in progress," my hostess said with a slightly embarrassed smile. It was obvious that the house wasn't quite the way she wanted it to be.

I would later learn that Isniino was something of a perfectionist and took great pride in keeping her home immaculate. She was deeply self-conscious about the fact that everything wasn't in perfect order, particularly with a white man standing in her living room. And, in her mind, I hadn't exactly given her much time to prepare - I had practically invited myself inside.

"What amazing artwork," I said, looking around at the beautiful paintings that decorated the walls.
"Where are these from?"

"Somalia," she replied. "My husband is very proud of our country’s art. He brought many of these pieces with him from our homeland."

I looked around again, taking in the vivid colors and unfamiliar scenes. The paintings gave the room a character and warmth that made it feel distinctly different from the homes I was accustomed to.

"Is that where you are from?" I asked, noting that she had black pantyhose on under the cloth she was wearing, which I didn't think Muslim women usually wore. How narrow-minded of me.

"Yes. My husband spent five years here in Florida. Then he finally got a promotion, and he brought us here," she explained.

"And how long ago was that?"

"Two... no, almost three years ago now."

"Wow. Your English is superb," I said.

"Thank you. Our daughter, Caaisho, started at an international English school when she was ten, and I learned a lot from her."

"That’s amazing. And how do you find the seasons here?"

"Ahhh..." She smiled thoughtfully. "We don't really have summers and winters in Somalia. We have a couple of rainy seasons each year, but with an annual rainfall of only around two inches, even those are hardly noticeable, just some very brief downpours."

She paused and glanced toward the window.

"I’m looking forward to seeing snow. My husband says he will take us to the Rocky Montin."

"Rocky Mountain," I corrected with a smile, and immediately felt a little foolish for doing so.

"Rocky Mountain, yes. Sorry." She laughed softly. "I have never seen snow."

"Oh, here,” I remembered the bottle I was carrying and held it out to her. "A little welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift."

"That’s very kind of you," she said, accepting the bottle carefully.

"And thank you. My husband will be happy to meet you, sir," she added as she placed the bottle on a very low table.

"Please, it’s Steve. Neighbors need to look after each other."

I smiled, but as I looked around the room, I couldn't help wondering where the beautiful young woman I had seen the other day was. I hadn't forgotten her.

I knew that they weren’t gonna drink it since drinking alcohol was forbidden according to their faith, but I wanted to test the waters.

"I never saw much of my neighbors when we lived in Florida," she said. "I knew their faces, more or less, but in Miami it seemed that everyone simply lived their own lives."

"Well, this is a smaller community, and we try to get to know one another," I replied. That was certainly true of this particular suburb, a gated community where some of the city's more affluent families lived.

"We followed that tradition back home," she said.

"Then I hope you'll feel right at home here," I said warmly.

Without really thinking about it, I reached out and touched her arm.

Isniino froze.

She stood perfectly still, her expression betraying surprise and uncertainty as my hand rested briefly on her arm. She was clearly not used to receiving such a gesture from an unfamiliar man. In her culture and religious upbringing, physical contact between unrelated men and women was generally avoided, and I suddenly realized just how far I had crossed a boundary without even considering it.

The realization hit me almost immediately.

I felt ashamed. I had walked into her home, completely disregarded customs that were important to her family, and then touched her without thinking. What had seemed like an innocent gesture to me suddenly felt deeply inappropriate.

I pulled my hand away, uncomfortable with myself and unsure how to acknowledge what I had just done.

Instead, I changed the subject.

"Are all these boys, and a girl, your children?"

"All seven of them, yes."

"Oh my. I have six fewer children than that!"

She laughed softly.

"The boys are either at college or working back in Somalia. My two oldest live in London, England."

"And the girls?"

"I only have one daughter. Caaisho. She lives here with us."

Ahhhh, Caaisho... that’s the one I watched by their pool.

"I was almost continually pregnant for years.

"So it seems," I laughed, and zipped the Somali drink I’d been handed.

Just then the daughter, Caaisho, came downstairs, and I shifted my focus from one prey to the other, the main kill. I'd already seduced two mother and daughter combinations (separately), and perhaps these ladies would be my third, but I felt that this would be by far the hardest one: the religious, cultural, and traditional aspects, and... they were my neighbors... probably too big a challenge.

But I immediately went over to the big-busted and very pretty teen, noticing that she too was wearing pantyhose under her bland abaya, ahh, yes, that’s what it was called.

My eyes repeatedly shifted to this gorgeous charcoal-black teenage girl's large breasts and the outline of her nipples in her tight braless garment.

I can’t explain why I particularly lust for curvaceous teenage black pussy. I don't think I’m a racist. Nor do I think it has anything to do with the cruel history of race relations in their country.

Like her mother, Caaisho was also stunned, and, quite the opposite of her mother, she came up to me and gave me a heartwarming hug. Did she know I watched her a few days ago?

She gave me a very firm squeeze, and I savored the girl's large breasts resting against my chest (God, did I want to cup them and suck on them?), before we released each other. She said (with a friendly smile), "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"You too, Ma'am," I replied smilingly, politely, still a little stunned by the hug, and by the odd feeling it had given me... A hard cock and hope.

"Please don't call me Ma’am; I am only nineteen," she said with a friendly smile. "It makes me feel old. Just call me Caaisho."

"Of course, nice to meet you, Caaisho. What a lovely name, by the way, Caaisho."

They invited me to sit in the large living room, and for a moment I felt as though I had stepped into another world. Almost everything around me seemed to have come from Somalia or reflected their homeland. I couldn't spot a single piece of furniture or decoration that looked typically Western.

A large, richly patterned rug covered much of the floor, its reds, golds, deep blues, and earthy tones woven into intricate geometric designs. Low cushions were arranged around the room, covered in colorful fabrics and embroidered patterns. Along the walls hung paintings and framed artwork depicting Somali landscapes, traditional scenes, and people dressed in regional clothing.

There were woven baskets in different sizes, some beautifully decorated with geometric patterns, along with carved wooden ornaments and small pieces of handcrafted art displayed on shelves and tables. A brass tray sat near one of the cushions, while another table held a collection of small decorative objects that I couldn't identify.

Even the curtains had a distinctly African feel, with bold colors and elaborate patterns rather than the plain, neutral fabrics I was used to seeing in American homes.

The room was warm and inviting, filled with colors, textures, and scents that were completely unfamiliar to me. Somewhere nearby, I could smell spices and what I guessed was incense, adding another layer to the atmosphere.

It was the first time I had ever been inside a Somali home, and I found myself looking around with genuine fascination. Nothing about the room felt accidental. Every object seemed to have a story, a connection to a country thousands of miles away that I suddenly realized I knew very little about.

"Isniino and Caaisho," I repeated, like I was trying to imprint their weird names into my head.
"Do your names have special significance?"

Isniino smiled. "Caaisho means long living."

"How perfectly lovely. I hope you'll be able to live up to it fully."

"Thank you, Sir," she said, reaching for her school bag.

"And yours?"

"Isniino simply means Monday. I was born on a Monday, so that's what they named me," Isniino explained.

"Well," I smiled, "I think that's the loveliest-sounding word for Monday I've ever encountered."

"Thank you," she replied.

"I'll see you tonight, Mom," Caaisho said, as she put her shoes on.

"Where are you off to?" I asked.

"To College," she answered.

"Oh, you mustn't be late for that," I said with another smile.

"I hate being late for anything,”

"So do I," I agreed, or at least I hated when my trophies were late for an appointment with me... and when they were, they were usually punished.

"It was nice to meet you, Sir," she said courteously, walking towards the front door.

"It's Steve, please."

"Sorry, sir... I mean Steve," she apologized as she closed the front door.

"What is she majoring in?"

"Pre-Med," she said before adding, proud of her daughter. "She’s going to be a doctor, just like her