The Girl in the Park

by

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Masturbation, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Public Sex, .

Desc: Erotic Sex Story: Washington Square Park is beautiful in the summer.

There has existed for time immemorial, well, at least in terms of New York City time, a little park that graces the lower part of Manhattan Island in that region known affectionately as Greenwich Village. If the truth be known, the park is a bit pretentious and, at times, a bit worn-down by the vicissitudes of humankind. The surrounding streets are mostly residential with a sprinkling of retail businesses and the occasional church or school. It was a place that positively reeked of atmosphere like one finds in quaint little European towns with vestiges of Roman influence. No Romans in Washington Square Park, but it does boast an "Arc de Triomphe" similar to the one in Paris, France.

The geometry of the park is a bit odd in that is more of a rectangle than a square just like the much larger park called "Central" in the middle of Manhattan Island. Strangely, this park had its start as a graveyard mostly for paupers and then graduated in a full-blown operating gallows drawing crowds on special days. The language changed from Dutch to English over time and for some reason it was shunned by decent folk. Eventually, it became the familiar of outcasts and folk who did not conform to any standard of normality and to some extent that has been a common thread even to today.

The rectangle vs the square aspects aside, the park incorporates several circular features that bring back images of the Druid ruins of the British Isles. In fact, for many decades the entire enterprise acted like a giant fulcrum that funneled the Fifth Avenue bus system into a circular pattern that set the southbound buses back into their journey north once more. It was almost as if anything below Greenwich Village didn't count as scenic. Reality reminds those who care that the economic focus of the city centered below Greenwich Village and that the park was almost on the frontier of development when it first started out.

My name is George Vlachos and I am a bus driver on the Fifth Avenue line and I hope one day to drive one of the double decker buses that we hear so much about down at the union hall. We are not allowed to have a union but we all hang out there waiting for the day when all that changes. It is a Monday and it is just after the noon hour rang out at the church tower nearby. I am sitting in my usual spot on the bird spotted bench under a spreading shade tree eating my lunch prepared by my wife in my metal lunch box that used to belong to my older brother who died fighting the dreaded Hun in the war.

I could sit with my other bus driver friends but I hate to eat near people because I tend to burp a lot when I eat and it is a "common" thing according to my mother. The sandwich is tongue sliced nice and thin just the way I like it. My wife Gracie always puts lots of tomato and lettuce on my sandwiches so it seemed like it is more food for me to eat. I don't really care for it but I eat it and smile because I certainly do not want to offend her sensibilities and she is a woman of a volatile nature. I like that she is because it makes her just the way I like her when she is under me in the bed at night. We have five children and they all go to the public school on the east side just like their mama and their papa did before them.

Just like clockwork, the lady comes to sit opposite me on a bench that is out in the sun and has almost no spots of dirt on it. She spreads out a handkerchief on the wooden slats before she allows her short pleated skirt to touch the surface. When she is bending over to do that, I notice that she is wearing the nylons that have the thick black seam in the back and I follow that line all the way up until it disappears way above her knee. I thought I could see a glimpse of the garters but it is difficult to say because the ladies are starting to wear the flesh colored ones that are difficult to see in semi-hidden places. I don't care because I know the show is after she sits down and not before.

I don't know the girl's name even though we have gone through this routine a couple of dozen times before. I was pretty certain she didn't have a husband because she didn't wear a ring and I figured if she had a boyfriend he would have joined her for lunch a long time ago. Her shoes are the new-fangled black patent leather ones that shine in the sunlight and seldom need cleaning. Just as I expected, right after she plants her pretty bottom on the bench, she pushes one shoe off her foot with the other and rubs the bottom of her nylon covered foot on her other ankle. We are so close that I can see she has put a new shade of nail polish on her toenails. It seems to match her lipstick which she sometimes repairs right in front of me with a little compact mirror from her purse.

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