Kristen’s Big Mistake

Redux

Millie Dynamite

© Copyright 2014, 19, 20, 23 by Millie Dynamite

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously-any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Kristen’s Big Mistake

Redux

Kristen’s trip went well. She’d bought dozens of new outfits, spent a fortune on all kinds of excesses, and enjoyed indulgence in the resort getaway. She felt satisfied and only wanted to get home to her husband to play the part of a loving wife. He’d be happy she returned two days early and would satisfy his every whim. The old fart had always been an easy mark.

Passing over the exchange, she turned onto the highway to take her home. Glancing to her right, she saw the wretched part of the city. The ghetto tenements where the worthless refuge of the community congregated in their despair and poverty.

“Niggers, spics, chinks, and trashy whites,” she spat the words into the air.

Kristen hoped her husband and his political allies could push this disgusting element from their fair metropolis. Kristen saw burning the scourge of inferior races from earth or regulating them back into slavery as a preferred outcome. Reduce their numbers, enslave them, and use them for the betterment of God’s people, the superior white race.

Fate has a habit of intervening in the lives of all people. That day, circumstances conspired against Kristen.

Her car coughed and sputtered. The warning bell clanged, the check engine light flashed on the dash, and the vehicle lost power, slowing, threatening to stop. With no choice, she exited into that squalid part of town.

She drove for a block, then two, the car lurching, coughing, and shuddering all the while. She feared it would die. How could she get out of this wretched area? She inched near the curb on a street devoid of parked cars. It crawled, slowing as she neared the middle of the block. With one last gasp, the vehicle... died.

Looking about, Kristen took in the depressing vista. Most of the buildings were vacant. A plethora of empty stores cluttered the landscape. Buildings locked up tight, windows boarded over. Kristen’s impression was a lost civilization falling into dysfunction, stretched in every direction.

The August sun beat on the hard-concrete sidewalks as heat waves rose from the ghetto jungle. One building had a sign above a door that said, “BAR,” and flashed the word, “OPEN.”

Locking her doors, she grabbed her cell, she swiped, “Randel.” “No Service,” emblazoned on the face of the phone. In the distance, she saw scantily clad women walking the streets, and men hung about them on corners, rough-looking characters - pimps or drug dealers.

“Niggers and spicks, the darker inferiors infest this part of the city,” she said fearfully in a hushed murmur.

Kristen had to find help. She had nothing to fear. All they needed to do was see her, and they’d recognize she was their betters. These miserable ingrates could never hurt someone so superior to themselves. They’ll view her superiority, and any intent to harm her will leave their weak minds like a fog burned off in the morning sun.

Funny how some people think their shit doesn’t stink.

Getting out, she locked the doors, returned the keys to her clutch, and with the phone in her other hand, she moved toward the bar. A knot tied her stomach, and her head throbbed from the scorching August sun. She took steps toward the door, secure in the knowledge of her own supremacy. With that said, there was a fearfulness in her. She pushed it down; after all, she was rich, white, and better than these ... subhumans. They’d see it, and the nature of her superiority would protect her.

In the dim light of the bar, smoke hung in the air, so thick one might cut it with a knife. The door swung open, and she strutted into the room. A young white woman in this part of town was unusual. Oh, there were white whores, wives, and live-ins of blacks and Latinos, but no wealthy white women. And not anyone as classy looking as this white woman.

The woman wasn’t older than 26 or 27 and looked hot and creamy.

She entered slowly, but not with a healthy caution. No, the woman moved forward with a measured, haughty stride, strutting like a catwalk model. The shapely creature hesitated while letting her eyes adjust to the smoky haze of the soft light.

The men looked her over good. These rugged men drank at the sight of the curvaceous girl. A few of the men, those near her, sniffed the scent of her expensive perfume. Breathing in the aroma deep, like a tiger, testing the smell of its prey.

One man bit his lower lip and imagined his cock busting her pussy wide open as a smile spread over his face. It wasn’t every day a rich woman, a cracker, walked into a place so - inhospitable to them.

Opening his eyes wide, he sized up the gift of the gods.

Five feet-four or five inches tall, she’d tip the scales at only 110 pounds if you soaked her to the bone. The woman clutched a cell phone in her hand. While she moved forward, her long, toned legs caught the men’s attention. The bitches pale white shapely calves and thighs encased in light-colored stockings or pantyhose.

The men wondered which stockings or pantyhose, horny minds wanted to know.

“A rich, white woman in da ghetto, how stupid could dis cunt be?” one man said, reaching inside his pants. He took hold of his hardening cock and rubbed himself. “Dis gonna be fun,” he told his companion.

“Yeah,” the other man watched her, waiting for the entertainment. This was going to be fun.

Her light blonde hair fell in soft, shimmering waves below her shoulders. She had a lovely frame, a large top without being too large, a thin waist, and a tiny round ass. The sort of Betty Crocker ass that would blister nicely with a few hard slaps of a callused hand.

A shimmering, golden-satin blouse covered her upper body. Clinging to her curves, the shirt appeared not quite translucent. That notwithstanding, they could picture the tits underneath the sheer fabric. The woman’s tight skirt wrapped around her and tied at the waist. With golden flowers pinned to her chest, just above her buoyant breast. The flowers’ color matched the color of her blouse. Black patent high heels with straps around her thin ankles completed the outfit.

Hushed, whispered grumblings came from the men scattered around the bar. Hateful glowers scowled at her. She didn’t notice the looks, didn’t see the men touching themselves, squeezing their cocks or balls. Kristen didn’t feel the angry lust the men held for her. Her baring didn’t change. Kristen held herself like a queen, waiting for her subjects to lie prostrate before her.

That was a preview of Kristen’s Big Mistake Redux. To read the rest purchase the book.

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