Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 <H1 ALIGN=CENTER>Serendipity</H1>

   <H2 ALIGN=CENTER><em>or; How a GOOD THING Can Just Fall In Front of
You</em></H2>

   <H3 ALIGN=CENTER>Copyright 2010-2015 The Scribbler</H3>

   Word count = 3891

   <H2><B>Chapter the first</B></H2>

   I wasn't actively hunting for fresh meat, that afternoon, but, sometimes
it just falls in front of you.

   With nothing better to do on a hot June afternoon, I was just cruising
the hood on my bike, kinda window shopping for whores, when the young black
boy ran out in front of me from between two parked cars.  I locked up the
rear wheel, and skidded sideways to a stop.  How the hell I managed to not
hit the little monkey, I don't know, because he tripped and sprawled in the
street, right in my path, at the first screech of my skidding tire.

   I felt the pain in my left knee, as I took the weight of the bike,
keeping it from going all the way down.  Rating it not too bad, I ignored
the pain, as best I could, which means not very much.

   Wrestling my Harley upright, I vented at the kid a bit, "What the fuck
you think you're doin', Bitch?"

   "I's sorry, mista," was his reply, the fear of almost getting run over
giving way to the fear of a big white biker pissed off at him.

   "Not near as sorry as you gonna be after I trash your punk ass!" I said.
Not that I was going to beat up on a kid, but the near miss had about made
me shit myself, so I was reacting, a bit.

   He just laid there, sniffling, and the anger I was feeling receded, as
the adrenalin that had spurted into my system began to dissipate.

   Pulling my shades off my face and putting them up on my forehead, I
looked down at the boy.  He looked to be an about eight or nine years old,
with light coffee colored skin, and a wild nappy head of hair that looks
like something from the 60's or early 70's.  A rather ratty looking afro.
At least it wasn't that shit filled dreadlocks mess.  His hair did look
clean.  But his clothes were dirty and ill fitting, and he was thin, like
he'd been missing meals more than eating.  When he was standing, he was
about four feet eight inches tall, but he was thin.  Not slim, no.  Skinny.
And not in a good way.  He probably only weighed about fifty pounds.  I
briefly wondered if he was anorexic.

   "What's your name, boy?" I asked in a gentler tone of voice.

   "Tyrell, Suh," he said.

   "You okay, Tyrell?" I asked.

   He looked around at himself, feeling for any pain, then he looked back
up at me.  "I's a'right, Suh.  I scraped my knee, though"

   "Okay, Tyrell, where do you live?" I asked.  Even though I bore no
responsibility, I was beginning to feel bad for the boy being hurt.

   "Down there, Suh," Tyrell said.  "A couple a blocks."

   "Okay Tyrell, let's get you home to your mama and have her check your
knee."

   "I got no mama.  Got no daddy either." Tyrell stated.

   "Who are you living with, then?  Who is supposed to be watching out for
you?" I asked.

   "I stay with my sister.  She takes care of me.  But she doesn't not want
me runnin around the house.  So I go play outside, but they is no other
kids my age around here.  They all off to school.  Nuthin round here but
old folks, drug dealers, and some crack hoes, during the day."

   "All right, then, Tyrell," I said.  "Come on up here, and I will give
you a ride to your house."

   The boy climbed to his feet, and, I hoisted him up in front of me, and
set him astride the tank.  "Try to keep your feet off the chrome." I told
him.

   "What's chrome," he asked.

   "The shiny stuff," I told him.  "You are going to have to point out to
me, where you live."

   Pointing his finger, as he stuck his feet out, as far as he could,
Tyrell said, "Down there."

   I started the bike, and drove the direction he was pointing.

   A block and a half later, Tyrell pointed to a dilapidated 2-story house,
"There," he said.

   I pulled over, and killed the engine then helped Tyrell off the bike.  I
swung the kickstand out and leaned the bike over, while checking out the
house Tyrell claimed to be living in.

   The upstairs windows were broken, and there were boards up over the
windows on the first floor.  There was a sheet of plywood , leaning against
the wall of the front porch, seeming to replace the front door.  It was
pulled out about two feet at the bottom.  The house looked like it was
abandoned.  I wondered how anyone could live in such a place.

   Tyrell ran up the steps and ducked through the opening, as I climbed off
my bike.  I stood there looking around the neighbourhood, and noticed an
older black woman rocking on the porch across the street waving a fan.

   "Where you catch that little hellion?" She called out.

   Walking across the street, after waiting for a car to pass, I made my
way to the bottom step of her porch.  Looking up at her, I said, "Well,
ma'am, I 'bout ran his little butt over, when he ran out in front of me."

   She laughed and said, "That don't surprise me none.  He runnin out in a
street all the time.  I actually surprised, he is still alive and hasn't
been hurt yet."

   "Where's his folks," I asked

   "He got no folks," she said.  "All he has is his sister, and I haven't
seen her today."

   Looking back at the house Tyrell had run into, I saw one eye in a dark,
young face peering around the bottom of the door frame, behind the plywood.

   Turning back to the old lady, I asked, "So, how old is the sister?"

   Glancing up and down the block from her porch lookout, she said, "Oh, I
'magine she be 15 or 16, now.  Just a young thing, got no business havin'
ta take care of young-un.  But, she seem to have done okay by the boy, even
if she got no life."

   Suddenly catching my eyes in a steely gaze, she asked me, sharply, "You
gonna take 'em outa the hood?"

   Looking at the ground at my feet, and some how feeling a bit of shame, I
thought about what the old woman had asked me.

   Rubbing the back of my neck, after a moment, I looked back and met the
old woman's glowering look.  "I really don't know how to answer that," I
said.  "I'm not even sure just what it is you're asking."

   The old woman threw her head back and cackled.  At least that is the
word my mind supplied to describe her laughter.  Then she waved a hand, and
said, "Come, grab a seat up here, and let me bend your ear a bit."

   I accepted her invitation by climbing the stairs to her porch, and
settling my ass on the top step.  The hot sun had been beating on my black
leather vest, and it felt rally good to get into the shade of her porch
roof.

   "You'll excuse me if I don't offer anything to drink, but I don't have
anything except water, today," she stated.

   "That's okay, ma'am," I replied, "I'm not thirsty, and this way I won't
offend by refusing."

   "A polite white man," she said, "Will wonders never cease?"

   I chuckled, and said, "You can thank my momma for that."

   The old woman smiled, and said, "Graciousness can't be taught, child. 
It comes from inside you."

   It startled me a bit to be called, "child," but I could see she meant no
harm, so I let it be.  "You were going to bend my ear?" I asked.  "I assume
it would be about the kids across the street."

   "Yes, it would," was her response.  "Those two need for someone to take
care of them.  The girl has done as good as she can, but she runnin' out of
time.  She ain't done no hookin', yet, that I know of, but she gonna have
to start soon, if'n they gonna eat, and have a place to sleep.  They were
living in the house behind me, up until 'bout a year ago, but when they's
daddy up and got himself killed they got kicked out, and they wasn't no
place for them to go, so they moved into that house, there, even though it
been condemned.

   "They been living in a condemned house for a year?" I asked.  "How the
heck they manage that?  I mean, no heat, no water?  Electric?"

   "Here in the hood, we got our ways.  An' we don't go tellin', neither.

   "Anyway, they was getting food stamps, but I think they must-a stopped,
because she ain't been to the market for a few days, now.  That girl was
real good about makin' the stamps last the month.  I know that me, an some
of the other old folks around here, try to have some left-overs for them,
an' we try to make sure they both eat a good meal when we can spare it, but
it's hard.  We's all poor, 'round here."

   "Now, you.  I been seein' you 'round this hood for a few years, now.  I
know what you do with them girls you pick up, takin' them to that dungeon,
tyin' 'em up, whipping them, n' stuff.  I talked to most them gals, and the
funny thing is most of 'em don't really mind what you do to 'em.  Or, mebby
it's they like you.  A little, at least.  And they all say you is fair with
your money.  You never cheated one, that I heard of.  Them gals, they say
you tol' them up front what you wanted, and what you was gonna do.  You
paid em what you said you was, and you brought em home."

   I'm sure that I looked more than a little shocked, by what the old lady
was telling me.  I'm sure most guys that bought the services of hookers
preferred anonymity.  Thinking a moment, though, I guess being anonymous
was just about impossible, if you shopped a particular neighborhood more
than once or twice.  These people were poor, not stupid.

   "You know mebby better 'n me how that don't always happen.  Only thing
around here kills more workin gals than bad tricks, is the drugs.  You's
always called a good one, by the gals around here.  More 'n a few of 'em
like having you as a customer, and they get a tad...  upset, when you pass
them by."

   I had been keeping an eye on the house across the street(and looking for
escape routes), while the old woman was talking, and I had seen the girl
peeking out the bottom of the makeshift door, then ducking back.  Finally,
she crawled out, and started walking towards us, and the old woman fell
silent, waiting, as I was, to see what the girl would say.

   Now, this was just my initial impression, and I might not be the best
judge of black girls ages, but I wasn't giving this girl more than 15, at
the oldest.  A very pretty thing, with slim hips, a flat belly, and tits
that were a bit large for the rest of her.  They were the size of large
oranges, or small grapefruit.  Even though her shirt was tight fitting, I
couldn't see any lines like a bra would have made, so I was guessing she
was naturally firm.

   At only few inchs taller than the boy, I'd have been surprised if she
weighed more than ninety or so pounds, even with those remarkable tits.

   She was dressed in a colorful green and yellow, pleated skirt that fell
half way to her knees, and flared nicely as she walked across the street.
The tight button down shirt I'd noticed first (I like tits, what can I
say?) was a pastel yellow that enhanced the stripes in her skirt.

   The filthy, white tennis shoes and no socks did kind of spoil the
effect, though.

   A very pretty face, but looking a bit worried, at the moment, her dark
brown, almond shaped eyes, held an old sadness, that made me want to pull
her into a hug, and make her believe everything was going to be all right.

   As she made her way up the walk, I said, gently, "You must be Tyrell's
sister.  Hello."

   "Yeah, I'm Latisha." she said, so quietly I almost couldn't catch her
words.

   "Mrs Johnston, what's goin' on?" she asked, turning her attention to the
old woman, and speaking a bit louder.

   Establishing myself as dominant, and in charge, I took a chance on being
accused of rudeness, by interrupting to say, " Mrs.  Johnston, my
apologies. I have no idea where my manners are.  I failed to introduce
myself.  I'm Will Jones." I stood up and offered my hand.

   Waving me off, Mrs Johnston said, "Pshaw, go on with youself.  You ain't
alla that." But, when I didn't retreat, she accepted my hand in a most
genteel manner, placing just her fingertips into the palm of my hand.

   I folded my thumb over them and let go as soon as she started to
withdraw them.  Turning back to the young woman, I said, "Latisha, I'm
sorry for interrupting you.  I'm Will." I offered her my hand, but she
didn't seem to know what to do, so I grasped her hand in mine, shook her
hand once, and let go.

   Latisha let her hand fall back to her side, and repeated her question.

   "Lawd, child," the old woman replied.  "I don't know what you's
thinkin', but I'm just passin' the time with this fine young white man,"
her voice sharpened, "who almost run over your brother."

   Latisha flinched.  Still not looking at me, she mumbled what sounded
almost like an apology.

   "Is Tyrell's leg okay?" I asked.

   "He be fine." she stated, not looking at me.

   I reached over and grasped her chin, a little bit roughly.  Turning her
face to mine, like she was a six year old, I stated, "I asked if his leg is
okay, not how he will be." Latisha cast her eyes down, even though she was
unable to duck her head out of my grip.

   "Yeasuh.  It's scraped a bit but I cleaned it up, and the bleeding
already stopped.

   I released her, and said, "Good.  I'm glad you took care of him."

   Her chin went back down, almost to her chest, and she stood, eyes down,
her hands folded in front of her, and her shoulders hunched forward, just a
bit.  Her posture just screamed, "Take me!  I'm yours!"

   To say I was thrilled at her submissiveness would be like saying the
Mojave dessert was a bit warm, in the summer.  More to the point, I had an
almost instant hard on.  This girl was my kind of meat.

   But, we're talking an -at least- semi-permanent state of affairs, here.
At least two years...

   I stepped back and looked at the girl, as I tried to get my mind around
this rather bizarre situation.  I'm not one that normally just jumps into a
deal, without having carefully weighed the pros and cons.  In my work, I
often took nine to twelve months to reach a decision.  When I'm making a
deal with a hooker, I make damn sure she is totally aware of what my plans
for the evening were.  Hell, I even did my best to avoid the ones that were
drunk or high.  I didn't want them to be able to say I took advantage of
them (as if purchasing their service wasn't taking advantage).  Nor did I
want them numbed to the pain of a whipping.  If they were not feeling pain,
I might easily mis-read their bodies signals, and go too far.

   I know it sounds weird, but I like to cause pain, not injuries.

   Anyway, my point is, this thing happening now, violated just about every
one of my ...  Rules, if you will.  I've been put on the spot, by the old
lady, and I am being required to make a spur of the moment decision that
will affect others than just myself.  And those others, this girl and her
brother were going to be making decisions, without full knowledge or
disclosure.

   I suddenly understood what the old woman was trying to tell me, that
this young lady was a slave looking for a Master, whether Latisha knew it
or not, and that the old woman was afraid that if any of the people on the
street figured that out, she'd be taken and used, until she was used up,
then killed, as happened every day in cities all across the country.

   They'd have her hooked on crack or heroin within an hour, selling her
ass on the street, a day later, and within a year, she'd be dead.  Mrs. 
Johnston wanted me to take Latisha, and Tyrell, and get them off the
street, out of the hood.  And, because of the way the local whores thought
of me, she trusted me to be the Master these two needed.

   She was telling me I could have the girl to do with as I pleased, as
long as I protected her.

   The price was that I'd have to take in and take care of Tyrell, too. 
That wasn't so bad.  I liked humiliating black boys, too.  They make good
cock suckers, and most have better asses for fucking than a lot of women.
They don't bitch about cleaning my cock as much as some women, either.

   Turning back to the old woman, I asked, "Mrs.  Johnston, what makes you
think I'd be willing to take this girl and her brother?" I stopped before
saying "Off the streets," but only to be just a little ornery.

   I heard Latisha gasp, but she didn't say anything, so I just continued
gazing at Mrs.  Johnston, who returned my look until I started to feel
uncomfortable.

   Just as I was going to break the stare, Mrs.  Johnston said, "Uh huh,
and like you don't know.  My only question for you, Cracker, is you gonna
take care of 'em, or hook 'em and pimp 'em out?  In spite of ever'thing I
just said?"

   The Cracker dig got under my skin, just a bit, as it was supposed to,
but I realized it was a test of sorts, also, so I let this one slide, too.
Besides, I didn't own the corner on 'ornery.'

   Looking back at Latisha, seeing her frozen in fear of the unknown, eyes
still downcast, I stepped up to her side, invading her space, and reached
up to gently stroke the back of my fingers down the side of her face and
neck.  She immediately shivered, and a very subtle moan barely made it past
her lips.

   "Oh," I said, softly, more to the girl, than the old lady, "I'd take
care of her.  I might share her.  Even might rent her out, to a special
friend, or two.  But I wouldn't pimp her out on the street." I continued my
caresses stroking lower and lower with each pass, until I was brushing my
fingers over her suddenly turgid nipple, poking itself more than half an
inch through the material of her shirt.

   'Very interesting response,' I thought to myself.

   "How old are you, Girl?" I asked.

   "Sixteen, a week ago, Suh," she replied.

   "And your brother?"

   "Nine and a half, Suh"

   I nodded, to show that I'd heard her, and continued brushing my fingers
across her breast, a moment, as I thought more about everything that had
been said.

   I reached my decision.  I was going to go for the brass ring.

   "I don't allow drugs, around me.  Of THAT, there is no worry," I said, a
bit harshly, this time speaking more to Mrs.  Johnston, than the girl I was
fondling.

   Latisha was almost panting, now, and I was wondering if her knees were
going to hold her up, or just collapse.  She didn't press herself into my
caresses, but she didn't pull away, either.  She was trembling, like a leaf
in the wind.

   "But, then again," speaking softer, now, I let my hand drop, then
brushed my other hand across her sweet ass, a moment.  I stepped slightly
away from Latisha, and turning back to face Mrs.  Johnston, "I can't take
her.  I could only accept her, if she were to give herself to me.  She'd
have to ask me to collar her.  Same for the boy.  He'd have to ask, too."

   A new respect blossomed on the old lady's face, and I knew she approved
of my sentiment.  And that she understood the distinction I was making. 
The end result would be the same, if I took the girl, or if she gave
herself to me.  The difference was in who's choice it would be.  I had
given notice that if Latisha decided to give herself to me, I would accept
her.  Her entry into slavery would have to be her choice.

   "You know no one else would give her the choice.  Her brother either,"
Mrs.  Johnston said.  "They just take and hook her on-a the crack, and then
put her on-a the street.  Same with the boy.  That or just kill him."

   "I know that," I replied, shaking my head.  "And I know that if I just
took her, she'd resent me.  This way, being her choice, she has no one to
blame but herself."

   "And my brother?" Latisha asked, so very quietly.

   Looking around to see her shoulders hunched up, eyes down cast in fear,
I took Latisha's face in my hand, again, gently this time.  Raising her
eyes to my own, I said, "I'd never split the two of you up, unless it was
what you both wanted."

   "You gonna fuck him, too?" She asked me.

   "If he's willing," I responded.  I'm not gonna rape him, if that's what
you're thinking.  He might choose to give himself to me, too"

   It went without saying that if Latisha gave herself to me, I would be
using her sexually any time, and any way I felt like it.

   "How soon?" She asked.  "How long do I got to decide?"

   "How long do you think you'll need?" I asked in return.

   "I gotta talk with my brother," she said.  "It gotta be okay with him,
too"

   "I can understand that," I replied.  Raising my voice, I yelled across
the street, "Tyrell, get your little ass over here, right fucking now!"

   As the boy came pelting across the street, I said, "When I get on that
bike, I'm leaving.  If you're on it, I'll come back for Tyrell, and your
stuff.  If you're not on it, I won't be back."

   Holding her eyes, I said, "I am not trying to be mean.  But you only
have that long."

   Tyrell came huffing to a stop, and said, "Yaysuh?"

   "Your sister has a question.  Think about it, before you answer." I told
him.  "You won't be able to change your mind, later."
   Looking at his sister, he asked, "He gonna take us?"