Snow Mommy

[EddieDavidson]

I am not really sure yet all what i will include in the story but I added the following codes

enf ×Humiliation ×race ×sex ×big-titties ×lactation ×
...

I thought I would try a story that includes a white woman serving black people. i don't want to get into scandalous debate about white/black people, i just thought it would be a fun story to have a snow mommy and her two snow daughters.

Initially, i made some images of two white girls getting dropped off by a smiling Karen at a house with a big black woman and her daughter (around that age) waiting to paddle their ass. I could envision her saying "Okay girls, just four more weekends and you will have learned your lessons".

However, i decided to try to not go so far over the top, at least to start.

Hopefully you enjoy it, if not - pass me on by. As always, constructive feedback is welcome. I have not done thorough editing at first, so pardon my mistakes. Please pm me if you notice a few. I am always tweaking them like a stripper's titties during a Richard Marx song.

[EddieDavidson]

"Michael, you can do better than this white bitch," Thelma made no secret that she didn't approve of her son marrying my mother. My grandmother is a strong, proud black woman, and she doesn't look a day over forty years old. I've never dared ask her how old she actually is to find out.

My mother didn't take offense. My father's side of the family hadn't made it a secret they didn't approve of her. Barbara just wasn't the type of woman to take offense, anyway.

"Thelma, we love each other…" my mom offered patiently in her honeyed, sweet Georgia peach accent.

"Hold up." Thelma held up her hand to signal my mother that it wasn't her turn to speak. "Was I talking to you?"

"No, but…"

Thelma shushed my mother with a wave of her hand. "You could have just said no and shut your ENTIRE ass up!"

Thelma rolled her eyes angrily and mumbled, "This white bitch hits every single one of my nerves!"

That was the crux of the issue with my mom. She could kill you with kindness and she'd bend over backwards to help a stranger in need. It was hard not to like Barbara Copeland. She might have looked like the classic "Karen" with her blonde frosted tips and talked like an extra from Hee-Haw, but she was devoted to my father, heart, mind and body.

Thelma's problem with Barbara stemmed from the fact that she was a white woman, and that was not something she wanted for her baby boy. She's the only one who can get away with calling a 6'3" former college running back a "baby boy".

"Mama, I have heard you tell me I am making a mistake, but it's time for us to be together as a family. Barbara's divorce is about to be finalized, and I want you to be at the wedding. It would mean a lot, but it's happening whether you want it to or not."

"Boy…you are skating on thin ice!" my Aunt Kateesha interrupted, shaking her head in disbelief, taunting my father. She's not too much older than me, but she's my father's sister. She's thin and has a smile that reminds me of an alligator. She likes to wear slutty clothes, but most black women in this part of town do. "You think if momma don't come, that anyone in this family is gonna be there?"

"I think Momma is going to come," Mike predicted firmly.

The short version of the story that brought us to live in a run-down house deep in the poor side of Orange Blossom Trail was that my mom moved us here about four months ago.

My mother was happily married to a man named Travis Copeland. I was raised in a typical middle-American suburb with my two older sisters and younger brother. We all had our own private rooms, I had an Xbox of my own, and life was boring but stable.

My older sisters are twins. Their names are Tiffany and Brittany, and they have my mom's blonde hair and blue eyes. They look about as white as you can look. They definitely don't fit in where we live now. Dirty old men drool over them and think they are strippers or streetwalkers.

My brother and I have darker skin. We aren't as black as Thelma or Kateesha, but it was obvious to Travis that we weren't his biological sons. He loves us, and he did his best to overlook that, but that may have been one of the reasons my parents divorced.

The problem for me is that I may not be "black enough". I don't sound "black" when I speak. My little brother Jashawn has darker skin than me and a kinky afro. I am sort of black and white, but not fully accepted by either side as one of them, which suited me just fine.

"Mama, what do I have to do to be a member of your family?" my mom asked plainly.

"I ain't your Mama, and unless you want me to snap my heel off in that fat ass of yours, you better not call me that again, Karen!"

"She does look like a Karen, Mama!" Kateesha grinned impishly and said that my mom looked like the type of woman who would call the law on black people for using a public swimming pool.

"I can't help how I look, y'all! If I dressed and acted more hood, y'all still wouldn't accept me!"

"Oh baby," Grandma Thelma looked at my mom as if she were a silly, dumb bitch and told her plainly, "the only hood you have ever been is the hood on your big old SUV sitting outside!"

I wanted to speak up and defend my mom, but she glanced at me with her pretty blue eyes and silently warned me not to get involved.

"Don't you never silence a black man in this house when he wants to speak his mind," Thelma lectured angrily and then turned to me. "Go on and say what you want to say, Marcus."

I was elated that my grandma considered me black. I'd never heard her say that about me before.

"Um, my mom isn't a Karen…please stop putting her down…"

"Shut up, Marcus!" Thelma and Kateesha insisted together. Their delivery was so deadpan that it came across as humorous, like something from one of those Madea movies by Tyler Perry.

"I am his grandmother. I can tell Michael, Marcus or Jashawn to hush their mouths," Thelma said. She explained that her double standard wasn't really a double standard because she had earned that right. "You haven't paid your dues to be able to do that."

"Well let me pay them, Thelma! Teach me how to be a good wife to Michael and a good mother to my sons and daughters."

"I'd have a better chance of teaching a white cop not to burn a cross, or a nigger to pay his child support," Thelma said. Thelma loved black MEN, but she hated the lazy, shiftless, irresponsible ones and openly called them niggers.

"Wait a minute, Mama," Kateesha pulled my grandmother to the side and talked to her for a moment before they returned with smiles on their faces.

"Okay, then," Thelma flashed a wide smile. "You want to get your hood card and pay your dues?"

"Yes, I do," Mom answered confidently.

"Then starting right now, we are going to educate you. If you show us that you'll do anything we tell you, and I believe you will be a good wife to Michael, then not only will I go to your wedding, but I'll bring my Fried Chicken and collard greens!"

"Mama, you were gonna bring those anyway," Michael insisted. "You want me to be happy, don't you? Barbara makes me happy. She's everything I could want. She doesn't need to prove anything to you."

"White women are tricky, Michael! You don't know them like I know them. They will fuck you right before you put that ring on their finger, and then they'll put a collar around your neck and make you their token boy!"

"Nothing could be further from the truth, Thelma!" My mom insisted that she had no intention of that. "I'll prove it to you! Just tell me what to do!"

"Then rule number one," my grandma held up a finger. "You are in the presence of two African queens. That means you address me as Mrs. Wilson and my daughter as Miss Kateesha."

My mom's face went a little pale, but she answered with a smile, "Yes, Mrs. Wilson."

My older sisters giggled and smiled to themselves when they heard my mom humiliate herself a little. Tiffany has braces, and Brittany doesn't, and that's really the only way I can tell my sisters apart.

"That goes for these two blonde Barbie dolls, as well," Thelma folded her arms in front of her huge, exaggerated, natural breasts.

"Okay," Mom shrugged agreement. My sisters glanced angrily at our mom and then flicked their eyes back at my father. I've never considered them half-sisters, and we haven't had our DNA checked. I was raised with them as my older sisters, and I chose to think of them as simply sisters.

"Mama!" Michael insisted she was going overboard.

"No, it's okay, Michael." My mom held up her hand and insisted she would do as she was instructed. "If Mrs. Wilson wants to be called that, then that's what we will call her."

"No, the black men of the house can call me Mama, because they are family. If you want to be in this family, then you start at the bottom and work your way up. You ready for that, Barbie?"

No one called my mom Barbie. That wasn't her nickname. She had ashy blonde hair with frosted tips, and even though she was tall and full-figured, I never thought of her as a Barbie doll.

"She does look like a Barbie doll," Kateesha placed her hand over her mouth to contain her amusement.

"She does not," Michael insisted.

"Well, we are gonna get rid of all these white clothes and get this Barbie bitch a proper wardrobe. Then we are going to do her nails properly," my grandmother took my mom's hands and examined her painted fingernails with disgust.

They were simple pink fingernails, but both she and Kateesha had long, glossy nails with multiple tones.

"A makeover?" Barbara (now Barbie) was thrilled and could barely contain her excitement.

"A white over!" my grandma corrected. "We are gonna stop at Sally's Beauty Supplies and get you some bleach to lighten that hair nice and shiny like your daughters have, and teach you to wear makeup like a colored girl."

"Mama, you can't turn my wife into a black woman," my father countered pragmatically.

"No, we cannot," Thelma surprisingly agreed with her son. "She's too uppity and light skinned. African Queens aren't made, they are born that way. She's just going to learn to be a proper, obedient wife and earn her place in the family."

"That's all I could ever want, Mrs. Wilson!" My mom bopped up and down and clapped her hands together excitedly.

Thelma and Kateesha didn't appreciate her excitement, because my mother had no idea what she had just signed up to do. Barbie believed she was going to bond with them over shopping, learn to make collard greens and fried chicken like my grandma, and probably face a little hazing in the process.

"Then let's go on and get started," Thelma urged my mother out of the house.

"Well hold your horses," Barbie said as politely as possible.

Thelma arched a single intimidating eyebrow at my mother for having the audacity not to immediately comply with the instruction.

"Where are we going, and how long will we be gone? Should I change?" She wanted to give us all hugs and a kiss before she left, because that was what she always did when she was leaving.

"Rule number two," Thelma delivered in an impatient and frustrated tone. "If Kateesha or me tell you to do something, you do it. You don't ever tell us to hold our horses, or I'll bend you over right here and whip your damn ass in front of everyone. If I wanted you to change your clothes, then I would tell you to go change them. Everything in your closet is going in the dumpster out back."

"Oh," my mom was surprised and clearly reluctant. "I do have some really darling clothes, and I think you'd like some of them…"

"I am going to ask this one time and one time only, Barbie," my grandmother said. "I want you to shut your mouth and engage that little B-B brain of yours to understand what I am asking you."

My mom closed her mouth and became serious.

"Do you love my son?"

"Yes, I…"

Thelma's hand went up. "If I ask you a yes or no question, I want a yes or no. If I ask you to explain something, then you better consider your words and explain it to me completely and respectfully. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes…Mrs. Wilson?"

My grandmother sighed as if she were reconsidering extending an offer to educate my mother. "If you love Michael, and you want in this family, then you must understand you will never be treated equally. Just like your people kept us separate but equal, we had different drinking fountains and had to sit at the back of the bus. We did that, and we waited our turn, and we are still dealing with the bullshit. Do you love my son enough to do what we tell you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson!"

"I am not to be trifled with, Barbie. I am not going to talk twice, and if I don't explain myself and you want to know why something is, then you will wait until an appropriate time and ask permission to find out why. I am not going to be questioned every time I tell you to do something. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson!"

Kateesha and Thelma seemed skeptical. "Tell me what I just said," Thelma insisted.

"You said don't trifle with you, or make you repeat yourself. If I don't understand something, I should wait until a different time to ask. I just wanted to make sure that I brought my purse and wore appropriate clothes if we were going somewhere."

"See how it is with white women?" Thelma looked at only the black people in the room, including me, and spoke to us, not my sisters or mother. I didn't see how it was, because I thought my mother's response was spot on.

"She can't just answer your question, she's gotta throw in a justification for why she was gonna do what she wanted to do anyway," Kateesha said, and surprisingly my grandmother nodded like that was obvious.

"If I thought you needed a purse, then I'd tell you to get your purse. Were you planning to bring your little overnight bag with some deodorant and a toothbrush so you don't have to use one of the same ones us black folk use?"

"No, nothing like that, Mrs. Wilson!"

"Good answer, bitch."

I noticed my mom glance down at her shoes and suppress the desire to respond with anger when she was called a bitch.

"You don't like being called a bitch?" Thelma asked.

"Not particularly, no," my mom admitted, and I noticed she didn't say Mrs. Wilson when she responded. If Thelma minded, she didn't say anything about it.

"If you want to be educated and accepted by me, then you will be my do-bitch, step-and-fetch bitch, maid-bitch, cook-and-clean-it bitch. You were born uppity, and we are gonna have to break down that prideful, selfish white arrogance. We need to take away all that white privilege, fatten up and beat your white ass until you learn to behave like…"

"A good bitch," Kateesha finished her mother's sentence.

"There ain't no good bitches," Thelma rejected her daughter's suggestion, adding that there weren't any good niggers or good pimps.

"Better a good ho' than a bad bitch," Kateesha offered.

"My wife isn't going to be a whore," Michael said.

"Michael Wilson!" Thelma palmed her big tits with her hands dramatically and squeezed. "When you were young enough to suck on these titties to get what you needed, I had to sell a little skin on the weekend to put food on the table and a roof over your head. A good ho' will do what she's gotta do."

"I make a good enough living," Michael insisted.

"I am not talking about turning the bitch out," Thelma indicated my mother as if she wasn't that attractive, but my mom is actually a natural beauty. "Look around you at this house. You got my grandbabies sleeping ass to ass, two to a room."

"So? I grew up pecker to pecker with my brothers, four to a bed, and I never lacked for nothing I needed," Michael said.

"Honey," Thelma addressed my father sweetly. "All I want for you is the very best. I know some black goddesses that would leave their man for you right now!"

"If they would leave their man for me, then how loyal are they?"

"What did this bitch do?" my grandmother made a fair point about her upcoming divorce with my white father.

"That's different," Mike said, but he clearly seemed conflicted.

"Michael, let me do this, okay? I want to prove to your mother that I will do anything it takes to be a good wife and a good mama just like her," my mom said with loving confidence but waited for him to agree.

My father answered silently by holding his hands up like he was not going to say more.

"Okay, Barbie, and if you can't hang with the Wilson family, then I want you to fold your adorable little clothes, get in your nice big SUV, drive back to that white husband in the fancy house you were living in, and give up your little ghetto quest. Got it?" Thelma imitated my mother's voice in a squeaky, exaggerated way.

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson," my mom answered crisply in her sweet southern accent and waited.

"No purse. No phone. No little snack bag, or tissues. No little emergency white-woman kit with pepper spray, breath mints, and a laminated picture of your white husband. You can turn around and get your white ass in the back of my car without another word right now, or you'll go in shoes only if I have to repeat myself!"

My mom started to hug us before realizing that Thelma meant she should go right now. She flashed an understanding look and walked outside to my grandmother's old Lincoln Continental.

Orange Blossom Trail (OBT) stretches through the heart of Orlando from one end to the other. Most of it consists of run-down industrial buildings and warehouses or shut-down storefronts.

We lived just south of Parramore near I-4, in what some would call the ghetto or crack town. Seedy motels, Dollar Generals, strip clubs, adult bookstores, fried chicken restaurants and cheap run-down housing projects line the streets out here, and you are best advised not to go wandering around at night unless you are looking for trouble.

Thelma pinched my cheeks and gave me and my brother a hug before assuring my father that she'd keep a close eye on my mom.

"When are you going to bring her back?"

"I don't know yet, Michael," my grandma insisted as she ignored my sisters. "Barbie might piss her panties and beg to come back in ten seconds."

"Her name is Barbara," my dad said.

"Not tonight it isn't," my grandma waved goodbye with a churlish smile. I heard her chide my mother for leaning against her car. "Unless you want to polish that paint, you better not be rubbing your fat white ass all up against it."

It was getting close to sundown, and I was worried about my mom. I didn't go with them, but I know exactly what happened after they left.

"Sorry, Mrs. Wilson," my mom stood up and waited to get into the backseat.

"You love my son?" Thelma asked as she and her daughter got into the front seat.

"I do."

"You'd do anything for him?" she asked as she started the car and closed her door while directing Kateesha to roll down the window by hand so she could hear the answer.

"Yes, Ma'am," my mom answered.

"Good, then you can jog behind the car until we get up to Goodwill to pick out some clothes. Chuck those shoes over in the garbage can as we pass by!"

Grandma didn't look back. She drove slowly out of the driveway.

My mom stood indignant for a moment and thought about what had just happened. Barbara saw their teasing as a test, and she was determined to pass. She slipped off her shoes, threw them away, and dashed behind the old car as it rumbled down a side street toward Central Avenue.

The asphalt was still warm from absorbing the Florida sun, and her bare feet turned black quickly as she followed behind. Barbara's big tits bounced up and down despite the bra she had on, and nearly hit her in the face.

"That dumb white bitch hasn't run since Carter was president," Thelma laughed as she watched my mother in the mirror. This was high entertainment to her.

"You ain't never run, Mama," Kateesha pointed out.

"Shit, and you don't stop running your mouth," Thelma quipped and silenced her daughter's teasing. "Look here, we can tease each other all we want in private, but around this cunt, we are always going to be unified. You don't make fun of me, I don't make fun of you."

"Alright," Kateesha agreed. "I get to tell Barbie what to do?"

"You are an African Queen, aren't you?" Thelma laughed wickedly and stopped to allow my mom to get in the car. She even waved her over to the door.

Relief swept over Barbie as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Eye makeup had begun to run down her face, and her legs were cramping.

Just as she reached for the door, Thelma stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward. Thelma and Kateesha laughed like a couple of happy magpies that just found a loaf of bread.

Barbie placed her hands on her hips and waited for them to stop as she caught her breath.

"Too slow, Barbie. Hurry your fat ass on and get in this car right now, or I'll run you down Central to OBT."

OBT used to be the main highway through Orlando before they built the Interstate a few miles away. It would still be busy this time of night as tradesmen called it a day, and hookers took over the sidewalks.

My mom took a chance and played their game again. Even though they allowed her to get into the car, they were making her play the game, and she even thanked them for letting her in.

"White people used to make us sit in the back and run for their amusement all the time."

"Yes, but I can't be responsible for what other people did years ago," Barbie was frustrated and tired.

"Will you listen to this uppity bitch?" Thelma asked Kateesha rhetorically. "Barbie, I didn't say you were responsible for racism, did I?"

"No, Ma'am," she replied with a frown.

Thelma stopped the car right where she was on the street. She turned around, looked right at my mother, and said, "Barbie, you are riding because I stopped and let you ride. I don't mind that you are calling me Ma'am, but I never told you that you could."

"Sorr…"

"Don't you interrupt me, or you can get out and walk the rest of the way, or walk your ass back to my son's house and pack your things. I am talking, and you will wait two seconds when I finish talking to ensure you don't talk over me from now on. Understood?"

Two seconds was an incredibly long pause, and my mother finally apologized politely.

"You can wait a full breath," Thelma made it clear she was revising the rules as she went. "When you are talking to a black person, I want you to smile and get all sweet like you do when you want something from us. I don't want to hear you answer me with your voice low and sour again."

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson!" my mom smiled.

"You already took the liberty of addressing me as Ma'am, so you can continue that with me and my daughter. You can also address us as Miss, Queen, or Queen Thelma and Princess Kateesha."

"Queen Kateesha," Kateesha said, pinching her mother's thigh softly in a way Barbie didn't notice, silently reminding her about not teasing one another.

"You'll inherit my crown when you get a man and start a family of your own, Kateesha, after I am dead and gone," Thelma explained as she started to turn onto Central Avenue.

The city built health departments and central administrative buildings here years ago, but they had already closed for the day, and the street was largely empty.

"You aren't going anywhere for a long time, Queen Thelma, and I don't mind addressing you, my future sister-in-law, as Queen Kateesha if that makes her happy."

"Rule number…." Thelma held up her fingers and tried to remember the rules so far.

"Three?" Barbie reminded her.

"You don't interrupt or eavesdrop when black people are speaking to one another and not to you. It is the height of your white ego that you think everything is about you or for you, and don't ever tell me what you do and don't mind. I don't give a goddamn if you mind it or not. Understand?"

That was technically two rules, but Barbie played along and affirmed her understanding sweetly.

"I think we need to punish this bitch when she breaks a rule," Kateesha sneered without a trace of sympathy. "That way she knows there are consequences."

Barbie wanted to point out she didn't know the rules yet, but she remained silent.

"What do you suggest I do? Pull the Lincoln over and put a quarter in the meter so I can take off my shoe and spank her ass?"

"No, we have to punish her other ways," Kateesha said. She didn't have any suggestions when she brought it up, but she quickly proposed taking Barbie's shirt away.

"This is Orange Blossom Trail, they'll just think she's some white jungle bunny working the sidewalk," Thelma insisted as she pulled up to the light where Central and OBT intersect.

"So? Jungle bunny is such an old term, people say snow bunny now."

"Snow bunny? I like that," Thelma found the term amusing because it combined being white with being a scared, insignificant rabbit that was incapable of hurting anyone.

My mom was well aware of the derogatory term for women who exclusively date black men, because her ex-husband Travis called her that too.

"Pop the top, Snow bunny, and hand it up here to Kateesha."

Barbie reluctantly removed her shirt as the car slowly drove through the light and turned toward the secondhand store nearby. She glanced out the window and wondered if anyone had noticed. She still had on her shorts and bra. She leaned forward to minimize her exposure.

"Barbie don't like her punishment, Mama," Kateesha smiled as she watched my mom frown.

"You sure love swinging those tits around Michael's friends, don't you? I've never seen you act shy when you are trying to tease some black men with your white sugar shaker and floppy big boobs."

"No, I don't, Queen Thelma," Barbie waited a full second to answer. "I apologize for acting like a flirt. I can't help it, and yes, I do get a little excited by attention."

"Don't stare at me like I'm supposed to feel sorry for you," Thelma said as she glanced in the rearview and kept one hand high on the wheel. "You wanted an education on how to be accepted into the family. Snow bunny class began the moment you hopped in this car. If you want attention, you are going to get it."

"I don't mean this kind of attention," Barbie brought her hands up to the bra cups she was wearing when they pulled into the parking lot, and a guy on the sidewalk looked right in the window and smiled at her because he thought she was a hooker.

"Attention is attention," Kateesha shrugged. She felt a little jealous that she was invisible while Barbie was around. "Let's go get you some more and see how you feel while we play dress-up with our new Barbie doll."

"You'll open my door first, and wait for me to get out, then you will open Kateesha's door, just like a black valet would when they used to drive Miss Daisy," Thelma held up an invisible steering wheel and did a poor imitation of Morgan Freeman as an old crotchety driver.

Barbie's bra was street-legal, and the parking lot wasn't very busy. She hurried to her mother-in-law's door and held it open while the woman took her sweet time getting out.

"Don't act so nervous, Barbie. The cops see hookers out here every night in less than what you got on," she smiled.

"Yeah, pimps send their girls out without shoes, in just panties and a bra if they didn't earn the night before to motivate them."

Barbie wasn't shy. She was loud and extroverted most of the time, but she was certainly capable of humiliation. A twinge of embarrassment started to wash over her as she realized how vulnerable she was, and how most people would perceive her if they saw her in just a pair of shorts and a white lacy bra.

There were a dozen snarky, defiant things she could have said in response, but she realized that would only get her stripped even more naked in the parking lot. "I try to look good for Michael and impress his friends, Queen Kateesha, but I doubt they would be impressed by what I am wearing."

"Michael's friends are titty watchers, and you have the kind they like. You aren't going to set the terms, conditions and reasons to show them off, girl," Thelma decided as she used Barbie's melons to support her weight as she got out of the car.

"This is the last time you wear this bra. You'll wear cheap bras like we do, and only if that's all you are wearing to cover these saggy Snow titties of yours. Now, go open the door for Kateesha and get your ass in this store, so we can buy you a new wardrobe."

"I want a new wardrobe, Mama!" Kateesha pleaded loudly as she waited for the door to be opened for her.

"How does it feel to want, Kateesha?" Thelma couldn't resist giving the response, even though she had just told Kateesha they needed to be supportive of one another.

"Hey, I thought you were being nice!" Kateesha caught up with her mother, and Barbie joined them. She was reluctant to walk next to them and remained a step behind.

"Sorry, Kateesha. I was just joking. You can rifle through Barbie's things and take anything that looks good on you," Thelma decided.

Humiliation is defined as the intense, painful feeling of shame or embarrassment caused by being made to look stupid, helpless, or lower in status, usually in front of others. There was no question that Barbie was feeling a healthy dose of that right then.

Degradation is also embarrassing, but it is defined as the process of breaking down, deteriorating, or lowering something to a lesser, weaker, or less respected state. Taking away Barbie's wardrobe by saying her clothes weren't proper for the hood, and then giving them to Kateesha, illustrated the difference between the terms firsthand.

"May I ask a question, Queen Thelma?"

"Not right now, Barbie. Get your ass in front of us where we can watch you wiggle and keep an eye on you," Thelma said before adding to only call her Ma'am, Miss or Mrs. Wilson in Goodwill. "Don't try to embarrass us," she warned.

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson," Barbie quickly took a step in front of the pair and intentionally wiggled her butt a little more than she normally did as she walked.

"Look at how she walks, Mama! Like she's got a stick up her butt," Kateesha snickered.

"We are going to have to teach you how to walk like a proper bitch. Now what was your question, Barbie?"

"I appreciate you buying me a new wardrobe, but some of my jewelry is precious to me because Michael or my sons and daughters bought it for me as a gift. May I keep that?"

"Everything you own came from a place of privilege you didn't earn, Barbie," Kateesha sneered and reminded her that diamonds came from Africa and the blood and sweat of her people.

"You are going to have to make some sacrifices, Barbie. What do you love more? Gold or Michael? Because we are only going to let you keep one."

Barbie was torn and reluctant, feeling a sense of worry that her family might not forgive her for the decision to give away the gifts she received.

"Will I be permitted to wear something appropriate to work? I might get fired if I show up without a bra," she admitted.

"I bet she's got a job as an accountant or a lawyer in some office somewhere," Kateesha said, theorizing that whatever work it was that Barbie did, it was soft.

"Actually, I am going to start teaching at Carver High after the summer," Barbie preened with pride. She had been a teacher for many years and transferred from a wealthy district in Winter Springs to work near her new home.

"Oh, the white savior, coming to teach the disenfranchised black teenagers like that movie with Michelle Pfeiffer!" Thelma mocked Barbie and asked if she'd try to get the class to sing "Lean on Me" or "Gangsta's Paradise" first.

"Been spending most my life, living in a gangsta's paradise," Kateesha cocked her head and did a funky dance while they walked toward the entrance.

A black guy walked out of the store and laughed at Kateesha while checking out Barbie's fat knockers in the bra top and giving Barbie an inviting look.

"No, Ma'am, I am just trying to do my part to help out the community," Barbie admitted as she held the door to the store open for the pair. The poorly-lit, outlet of second hand goods smelled of old linen and used furniture that nobody wanted any longer.

“Don’t worry your dopey little head about what you are going to wear, Barbie. Leave that to Mama and Queen Kateesha to decide what is best for you, okay baby? Now, take those earrings out and hand them over to me.”

Barbie followed her mother-in-law inside the store and removed the expensive earrings. She wanted to point out they were a gift from Michael but she knew this was another test.

“Good girl, now let’s get you some proper clothes,” Thelma patronized her future daughter in law and noticed Kateesha hunting for bargains in the nearby racks.

There store easily had twenty shoppers and only a few employees working at that time. A homeless black man took a long look at Barbie and flashed her a lusty grin of yellow teeth.

“Smile back at the black man, Barbie,” Thelma wasn’t discreet about slapping the woman on her big ass to get her attention, and several shoppers looked over in time to watch Barbie smiled sweetly at the homeless man.

[EddieDavidson]

There really should be a more interactive way to brainstorm.

I knew the story would potentially upset some people for whatever reason. What little feedback I received was largely negative. I do like to see white women serving black people, but that's really nothing to do with racism and everything to do with turnabout.

My original vision was simply that Thelma and Kateesha show up and have already worked it out. "Okay girls, let's go...your dad will hold down the fort with the boys this weekend."

Third person perspective (narrator voice) is very popular on this forum.

My experience with that is it encourages "Tell" and not "Show" because the narrator is telling you what happens, and psychologically as an author you get into the neutral observer/fly on the wall mode.

I enjoy stories written from someone's perspective because it allows me to see it through their eyes. If they are the reluctant nude female or the cousin watching his sister Floor get bits of glass methodically picked from her butt, I can relate. I enjoy a little exposition in the form of the inner dialogue.

It's a more natural way for me to tell a story because I imagine I am that person talking about the most interesting time in my life and write the way I would talk about what happened.

Many authors do what I call "Police Blotter" method, which is an extreme form of tell don't show.
This person said this.
This person did this.
This person did that.

It's very easy for me to drift into that unless I add the perspective of the storyteller. Marcus would naturally worry about his mom and in a draft after I published this one, I added a little more acceptance that if his grandma didn't listen to his dad, then she certainly wouldn't listen to him.

As I wrote this, I realized my mistake right away. Marcus wouldn't be privy to most of what happened first-hand. I used poetic license to say that he knew exactly what happened, which is valid. My intent was Marcus and jashawn would be placed in charge of their mom and sisters and that's why I wanted Jashawn's experience through his eyes to feel relatable.

I feel now if I were to go down this story's path that I would want to just do third person narrative. I could allude to the fact that someone in the know is narrating but I think it would read better.

I actually made a ton of photos as I was writing this of Barbara in her pink top as i imagined her transformation into "Coco" Ice-T's wife.
I wanted her to be reluctant but stubborn enough to keep at it and sweet, because arguing and bitching wouldn't be fun. I felt like if she was completely on board though that it may lose it's appeal to me. However, by the time the hit the Goodwill store, she was going to start to have fun with her situation.

I should just finish up some of the stories I started in the past before writing again and then not post until I am finished with a story. I hate to leave anybody hanging but I don't thing I'll continue this, at least not in it's current format.

I had another idea that is inspired a little by "Floor". I've written similar stories but I've never quite captured the pace and feel of Floor.

I imagined a the main character visiting his grandparents and told his cousin Lilly will be there. The last time he saw her, she was a pudgy dumpling/chubby girl who wasn't very bright.

She has a rare form of Gigantism, and her growth spurt has been incredible. She's 7 foot tall, big ass, and I was still deciding on the size of her tits. She thinks she is ugly, but she looks like an adult film star now, and acts like a ditzy blonde. The grandparents welcome him and say there is only one guest room.

"I hate to ask you this Trevor, but we only have the one extra bed. Do you mind sharing with Lilly?"

Her mom says "It's a little embarrassing to tell you this, but she plays with herself constantly. If it bothers you, just pour a glass of water on her or slap her hand away from her pussy."

"MOM!"

I like the idea of a story about a big girl who can't find clothes that fit any longer, maybe she goes around trying to sell girl scout cookies and laments that the skirt doesn't cover everything and giggles anytime someone propositions her.

"Go with your cousin to sell cookies door to door and make sure she doesn't go inside some dirty old man's house and sit on his face, Trevor."

"Yeah, we don't want her to go to jail for murder," grandpa jokes.