My Central Park Lover

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Does anyone want to read a plain-vanilla story about a fuck in Central Park? As my profile reports, I live in East Hampton, on Long Island, also in Manhattan. But back then, I lived only in the city in a fifth-floor walk-up on East 78th near First Avenue.

It was the dawn of the age of running. Sure, I knew guys in high school track who chose long-distance running. But then, it was a specialized sport—not exotic, like Aikido, but maybe like wrestling. And then, running burst upon America in the 1980’s, and had not let up when I arrived years later.

Come on, if you lived in Manhattan in the depression of the 1970’s, paying rent and all the other expenses, it was appealing to choose a sport that required nothing more than shoes, shorts, and a headband. No athletics club. No golf course fees. No tennis racket and balls. Put on your shorts—very short, in my case, because my long legs are my best feature—your T-shirt—no bra because I am high, compact, and jounce minimally—and a headband—I have bangs.

Finishing a run, you sweat as though nailed to the bed and getting it good and hard. Why am I saying this? A lot of running was, and is, about sexual feelings. One guy told me he rented a summer “share” in a group house in East Hampton and, when he arrived one hot Friday in June, and met the babes who were his “group,” he promptly put on his shorts, no shirt, tied on his shoes, and began to run in circles on the sand-edged, treeless roads that are the Amagansett Dunes.

As he ran, he fantasied, got harder, chafed his dick against his shorts—and ran on, quivering, throbbing, nuts with arousal. He kept thinking that the chafing would rub him off in one of those agonizingly slow, drawn out jerks and ran on, waiting to come. But however much the rough cloth sanded his hot, swollen glands penis, he just could not come.

We leave him running through the blazing sun in a wild daze of lust, a spreading patch of pre-cum on his sorts… Imagine if some fleet woman with long legs of gazelle, bouncing blond ponytail, full lips parted to pant in the stifling air has come toward him and, smiling, said: “Hey, wait, you’re in a bad way! Wow, I never saw such a stiff one!” And stopped him, and knelt, and dragged down his shorts, so the bright-red tormented, unbearably stimulated prick sprung up and back…

Where the hell was I? Right. Most weekends, I ran the whole Central Park loop. I had time. Evenings, I ran Carl Schurz Park along East End Avenue and the walkway beside the East River from the heliport at 61st all the way to the Triboro Bridge.

Of a Saturday morning. though, I entered Central Park at around East 86th on Fifth Avenue and hit the circuit, which, if you do it, is about six miles—all the way from 110th Street at the edge of Harlem down to 59th Street–where the park ends in the high-rise, soaring cliffs of midtown—and back. I competed against myself, pushing, because for me—as for many of us–this was our first experience with athletic training.

I was aware my long, slender, pale legs had become muscled, my nipples rose and fell, brushing my shirt, my belly and thighs were sweating, and my lips parted, sucking air. It felt distinctly sexy running like a gazelle, hair streaming, sweat stains between my breasts; but it also emitted signals to predators, the lions of the veldt.

Nothing had happened for years, since the horror of the rape of Trisha Meili in a mild April of 1989, which left a slight 28-year-old woman, less than 100 pounds, in a coma for 12 days. She was “brought down” like prey by young black and Hispanic men who to prepare her for rape slammed her head over and over again with a rock. When she awakened in the hospital, the long saga of her irreparable brain injury came to light.

I easily could have been Trisha Meili—and I know it. I entered the park at 90th Street, turned north toward the upper end at 110th Street, ran around the lake, and headed south on the west side of the park. Oh, I was running so well; I felt I could do two laps, today—a brilliant, warm day in early April before the heat hits you like a wall. It was a day when new leaves were their greenest green, which is gold. I streamed along in running high, innocent as a baby antelope.

But there are the young lions, too, with their springtime surge of life, of irrepressible energy. Four guys–black, tall, but, as I discovered, probably not even twenty. Their prey was an older animal at twenty-four. I didn’t even notice them; the gliding step of running shoes is not a racket. And they did not speak because they were hunting.

At some small sound, I turned, suddenly, jerking my head, and he was leering at me. A guy maybe eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, clad in black sweats, black headband, keeping pace very close and checking out my bod.

I waved, smiled, tried to speed up. But I was doing my max, already; to try to run away, and fail, seemed provocative. Then, two were on my left, and I was panicking. Strange: just well-built, hot young guys on a spring day. What if I had decided: what luck, I’m so ready for this?

And then, a hand grabbed my hair from behind, so I almost fell. If my attacker had not also been running, my legs would have run out from under me and I would have crashed down on my back.

On my right, the guy was shoving me toward the edge of the road. On my left, two had seized me and were dragging me left. And from the rear, it felt as though someone were tearing out my hair. What has been said, so often, but is hard to grasp, is how fast it happens.

In my panic, I thought only of keeping my feet. I did not want to fall, be “down,” helpless. Yelling, yes, or loudly protesting, lashing futilely with my arms, crying out: But on my own momentum, my own power, I was veering off the road, over the edge, toward the woods.

It was just a few yards into the woods when I sprawled, pushed maybe, in the dirt, kicking out. But lots of panting hands were jerking down my shorts and shirt, pulling and tearing, stripping me open like a Christmas present. I flipped over, flipped back, trying to protect myself. Nothing worked. I just lost every shred. I was a naked white girl squirming in the dust.

Sometimes, you get one of those surges of energy, or terror, and I gained my feet, punching and kicking, broke away, headed for the road. Funny, in a way, because I was stark naked, but the road represented safety, sanity. And I nearly made it, clambering up the slight embankment, so my hands scrabbled at the pavement—and then, they all piled on me, flattening me, so my bare breasts, my belly, rasped on the tarmac’s rough edge.

As though from nowhere, or heaven, I heard: “Hey, yo…What the hell are you doing?”

My head shot up. Another black guy. Really tall, long legs sweating with his run, chest and shoulders massive under a brown T-shirt that said “Have A Great Day, Love,” and, at that moment, a face that seemed heartbreakingly beautiful.

And then, “Hey, back off, brother. What’s going down, here?” And he was reaching down for me and I was weeping. This was a full-blown nightmare and I was stark naked, covered with dirt, my face streaked with tears and probably snot, my tits scratched…

With fearful speed, two of my attackers were on the road, and I heard one yell, “Fuck off, none of your fucking business…” And they were in front of me, blocking my view of my savior.

An abrupt, sickening “thud” and a body was flying over my head into the woods. Next, a scream, flailing of legs, a protest, and a body flew totally over my head. I heard it land sounding way behind me.

He was looking down and in his face was all the kindness and compassion in my world. His hands reached down to lift me and for the first time I thought I might not kızlık bozma porno die.

“We gonna GET you bro,” I heard, and behind me was motion. My savior slowly straightened up. And two of my attackers, carrying two others who seemed senseless, were struggling out of the woods onto the road and hurrying away.

And the deep voice boomed back, “Well, come get me, then. But I’m not a girl, so you may have a problem… There are just four of you…”

He was helping me onto the road, hands so gentle–but I was pulling against his grip, like a willful child. “What is it?” he asked, sounding baffled.

“My clothes,” I muttered.

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

Back there, where they had stripped me. But I did not try to dress. I knelt there, naked, hugging myself, and looked up at him. He was waiting, watching, a slight frown on his face.

I took a few steps on my bare knees across the grass, till I reached his legs. I put my arms around his knees, I pressed my breasts against him, I lifted my face up—and I kept crying.

His big, dry hand came down and so gently ruffled my hair, drawing his fingers through it. He murmured, “No one, ever, anywhere, should have to go through this.”

And then, he said, “You don’t have to do this, not at all.”

Because my lips were on his legs, brushing the skin and the hair, lost in his odor, my eyes shut tight.

“No,” I said, perhaps too softly to hear, “I don’t have to…I know…

“You’re upset…”

I gave a bark of lunatic laughter staring up into his face. “Oh, I am? Upset” And I went off into a giggling fit. His deep laughter was a balm to me.

And then he said, so easily. “I think you’re recovering awfully fast.”

Tears ran from my eyes. I know I wasn’t myself—or was myself in a way I never had known, or was experiencing PTSD. But I said, “I am nothing but a woman and have no way to repay you but a woman’s way…If you want…”

He was shaking his head, frowning down at me.

“Please, let me.”

And without waiting, I reached up, my hands so childish on his giant’s body, and took the edges of his shorts.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Anyone…”

Again, there were tears in my eyes. Yes, it was SO fucking crazy, so manipulative, so crazy-white-bitch… So slut… But, you know, I hadn’t exactly been through the rape crisis center, yet, right?

I drew down his shorts, my pleading eyes never leaving his. Looking down at my face, and the tears, and my lips already parted, he said, softly, “If you got to…”

My lips closed on him, trembling. God, it felt so big and soft, and it was his—the manhood that kicked away my attackers and gave me back my life. My tongue in a revel of relief went round and round the huge smooth head, flicked its underside till I heard, “Oh, yes, yes,” and I felt a flood of relief. My hand came up and took the massive balls, hefting, shaping, caressing them. This source of his manhood… And then, my lips were there, too, because this was the man…

I must have seemed a starving animal as I sucked his cock, my hands grasping his balls in desperation–or worship. And when his big hands came down and found my tits, closing over each one, I was wild with relief and ecstasy that he would seek out my breasts and tenderly brush my nipples until they erected, demanding attention.

My man was aroused, his prick rampant. I withdrew my lips from the wet, hard, brown dick, now holding it in my small hand, feeling it pulsing. I looked up.


“Tell me what you want.” The voice was gentle, but the question was there.

I sank to my knees, bent over, my face lowered onto my arms in the dirt, and my woman’s broad loins split and offered to him. His choice. My dark-haired furrow offered both entrances. I merely let my face fall onto my crossed arms and could smell the musky soil, the old leaves.

Just köylü porno the brush of two hands across my ass, parting me a little wider, then going round and round, a finger occasionally trailing through my crack. I kept telegraphing in my silence: Take me. It doesn’t matter where. Some woman’s opening, come into me

It was impossibly intrusive. It made me whimper because it was hard and so deep. And I felt enormously secure. Once, I cried out but bit my lips as he filled me. I mean, we were just out of sight of the street in Central Park on a Saturday morning. I held my head down and felt it all inside me.

I became aware of his hands, so powerful, on my hips, moving over my stretched ass, reassuring me. I longed for him to bend forward, again, reach around me, seized my pendant breasts. And then, he did, sliding up my back, around me under my arms, and taking me, two handfuls of me, the stiff nipples against his fingers.

His hips struck my ass, the rhythm began, and I could feel the rasp of his hair; my own body jerked forward, deep in my belly the soaring pleasure. My panting breath kept the rhythm, but I was desperate to hold him. I snaked my hand back between my own parted legs and found his heavy, hanging balls and took them. I just held on because I wanted to keep him. What more could I do?

Suddenly, much rougher, his hands on my tits were lifting back my body, rotating my cunt on its impalement, so the back of my head rested against his chest. I was rampant, as though in high heat, my lips wide apart, breathing so hard.

He sighed, “This is beautiful, girl,” and they were the dearest words I ever heard. My hand, as though on its own, had slid down my stretched-tight torso and slipped into my hair, my slit, and I was teasing my clit, flicking it, so the thrilling waves rippled up through my whole body and my face flushed with a rush of pleasure.

As his rhythm quickened, I longed to take his ejaculation, take his pleasure with all my senses. I turned so he was pulled out of me. I heard his surprise and quickly said, “Just a second, darling,” and then was on my knees, my hands enfolding that delicious slick thing, at once so powerful and so sensitive.

I might have considered for a moment that I could be subtle, but I grabbed his dick and shoved it into my mouth, shoved it down until I would gag. I wanted all of it.

I almost missed it. His hips began their rhythm. I know he was not deliberately ungentle, but he filled and choked me until my face burned. And when he came, and I swallowed it, and licked him to prolong his pleasure, I heard him groan, “It’s so, so sweet.”

It was. Because excitement in turn cramped my stretched belly, exploding between my legs, and I hugged him frantically, burying my face on him to stifle my shrieks, cried and jerked my own hips. After a moment, I whimpered, “Yes, yes.”

I think he must have carried me a little deeper into the woods, because nothing disturbed my brief minutes of peaceful sleep in his arms. When I awoke, he had dressed me in my few things.

I’m not sure of everything I said, but I know I said: “You will come to see me?” And I whispered an address.

Some moments passed. He was gazing down on me and must have seen my hope and happiness. But he said, shaking his head, voice gentle but strong, “I can’t do that. I live a different life.”

For one desperate moment, I almost said, “I was a virgin.” And it was true. I have been thankful, ever since, I didn’t say it.

Instead, I said, “Thank you for what you did—all that you did. I’ll never forget you.”

“You’ll probably see me,” he said.

And I smiled.

Since then, I always run with a couple girls or a group. No more incidents. I haven’t had another guy. Not ever. I don’t know why.

I do see him, suddenly coming toward me out of flickering sunlight and shade, or over a hill, and he smiles. Or he’s behind me, suddenly, and I hear, “Yo,” as he catches up, smiles, waves. I never could keep up with him.

And a girl will ask, “Who is that?”

I have thought I might reply, “That’s the guardian spirit of the park.”

That would be silly. I just say, “I met him once.”

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