There are some individuals who believe that coincidence can be explained away by logical explanations. There is a certain comfort in life when one supposes that everything can be calculated and replicated. Bret Matthews lived his life that way; he was methodical and premeditated with everything he did, with how he interpreted every experience in his world. It wasn't until he found himself being challenged and pushed to beyond his limits, in a situation where he had no power over his lusts and no will of his own to assert, that he learned what it meant to be truly free in the confines of mental enslavement.
Spring is meant to be experienced outside, enjoying the flowers and the sunshine and all the things that contribute to nature's ability to elevate hormones and arouse lust. There was something amiss, some sort of itch, a longing perhaps that was gnawing at Bret's psyche, tugging at his spirit. Feeling all the effects of the change in season, he decided that he would forego his usual lunches in the food court with co-workers and dine alfresco in solitude. He felt a need to be alone, to observe his surroundings, to meditate on life and its meaning while absorbing a little Vitamin D and fantasizing about his perversions.
Lincoln Park provided the perfect backdrop for his midday musings. He could sit and eat his brown bag lunch and watch all the people go by. Technically, it wasn't really a brown bag, it was a white bag filled with amazing food from a little gourmet shop that made the best sandwiches and salads in town. Moreover, he wasn't really concerned with watching all the people go by, just the ones with breasts and brown skin. If warm weather had him feeling naturally horny, it was exacerbated by the fact that the change in climate made Black women come out of hibernation and start wearing more form-fitting clothing and open-toed shoes. Bret had a fascination if you will for the exquisitely manicured tootsies of Black women but that was not his primary fetish.
Bret had a love for the shapely butts of women blessed with only what could be termed, Afrocentric behinds. He loved everything about them: the way they moved and jiggled when they walked, the way they filled out a particularly tight pair of jeans or swayed beneath a skirt, he loved big, round, sexy black asses. Discretely, he would watch as they walked by, imagining what those fabulous brown asses looked like with no clothes on, what they smelled like, and of course, what they tasted like. There was nothing not to love about his midday excursions because he could get out, sit in the sun, and get more than enough fodder for his fantasies. It was a helluva lot better than sitting around talking about boring work stuff with his colleagues.
Being a creature of habit, Bret pretty much sat on the same bench every day. One day, feeling like he needed to stretch his legs a bit and explore other sights, he ventured out to explore more of the park. That day, he felt compelled to change his vantage point to see what else the world had to offer. As luck would have it, he stumbled upon a pavilion with chess tables set up and people standing around watching the games. As is usual for most public parks, there were homeless Black men stationed at each table, schooling white boys who were looking for diversions from their mundane lives on their lunch breaks as well. It seems like in every corner of the country, in every park, Black men who look like they haven't bathed in months play skilled and strategic chess games. This park was no exception save one small exemption.
Seated at the end table was a young, Black woman with a petite frame and short, curly Afro. She didn't look like she was homeless; in fact, she looked like she could have been a college student.
As she stood up to stretch a bit, Bret could tell that she couldn't have been more than 5'3" and if she weighed 125 pounds, 10 pounds of that has to be distributed evenly between her tits and her ass. She was wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt with a drawing of the Statue of Liberty depicted as a Black woman with a raised fist that said, "Statue of Liberation" in bold, graphic printing. Her 32D's filled out that shirt perfectly. Her complexion was smooth, like melted chocolate and her little round button nose fit her angelic face perfectly. She had sexy, full lips that were highlighted with shiny, clear lip gloss and as she spoke, her tongue touched the bottom of her front teeth like she had a slight lisp.
Bret wasn't close enough to hear exactly what she was saying but he was close enough to watch her play her game. She played like a master. Bret was undone. He needed to get back to work but he was transfixed to that spot, unable to move. He was studying her every move, both her chess moves and her chest moves. He made his way closer to her table but he didn't dare approach her or talk to her. It was clear she was the center of attention because women hardly ever played chess in open-air forums like this one and everyone took notice not only because of her striking beauty but also because she seemed unbeatable. Chess was a man's game and there were very few women whom Bret knew who were patient enough to learn the intricacies of the strategy or bother to play the game at all. When he did meet women who were skilled players, he could beat them easily but he always dragged the game out and allowed them to win so as not to look like too much of an asshole and defer to his hidden desire to practice female superiority. She looked up briefly and made eye contact with Bret and said, "Whose got next," like she was a basketball player on the court taunting and teasing her opponents to an intellectual azz whuppin.
Bret politely mouthed the words, "No thanks," and made his way back to his office. He was fine the rest of the afternoon, distracted with projects, details, and minutia. It wasn't until he was stuck in traffic on the way home that his mind started to race. What normally should have been a 30 minute ride was taking forever and a day which led Bret to some dark and deviant ruminations. He began to fantasize about the strange woman in the park, about her peeling off her incredibly tight jeans and revealing a pair of red satin panties. Standing before him in nothing but those sexy panties and red, high-heeled shoes, Bret imagined that she bent over in front of him and lowered her undergarments down over the full, round asscheeks barely contained within. She wiggled and flaunted that ass in his face, teasing Bret with it. Pulling her cheeks apart, Bret dreamt that he could smell the heady aroma of her ass wafting from between those perfect, brown globes. In his fantasy, he gently placed his nose near her sacred butthole and smelled her natural scents. He was aroused and his cock was hard; he rubbed it through his pants to relieve the pressure and to add just the right amount of pleasure. Just as he was about to place his tongue to her hole in his mind, traffic started moving and he was snapped back into reality.
The next day at work it was all he could do to wait for his lunch hour. He was preoccupied with thoughts of her and could barely concentrate on anything but visions of her ass. Finally, around 11 a.m., he could take no more and he made excuses about somewhere he had to go, something he had to do, and stole away to head to the park. Because it was earlier than the usual lunch hour, there were very few people in the park except some tourists, some preschool children's groups, and some other people who were like him and escaping work and having an early, extended lunch. The chess tables were all occupied but not with the lady with whom he'd taken an interest. Today, rather than it being the homeless versus the white boys, it was simply Black man versus Black man, their residence, or lack thereof, not playing any role in their game. Never before had he taken the opportunity to watch their moves so intently, to study their game and he wondered as to how someone who could master the analytical skills of chess could end up being destitute and anti-social. He wondered how a woman who looked so out of place among those men could be comfortable around them, around their smells and clearly brash and rebellious demeanors.
"Are you going to play today?" Bret froze momentarily as he felt the presence of someone next to him, dangerously close, invading his space, practically touching his arm. Without looking, he knew it was her. Her voice was soft and melodic yet raspy and erudite at the same time.
"No," he mumbled, "I have to get back to work," and he hurriedly left the park and spent the rest of the afternoon kicking himself for not taking her up on her offer. In any other circumstance, Bret was confident, secure, he was never one to waffle or crumble under pressure. He'd wanted to meet her, to talk to her but he choked under pressure.
.... There is more of this story ...