Queening for a Day

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 Rice 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.

The next day, Bret kept his anxiousness in check and waited until noon to blend in with the rest of the crowd. He didn't go close this time, he watched from a distance. She was there again and he could tell she was undefeated at her tenure at her table. A few Black men, business men and workers from the neighboring office buildings, approached, played, and slinked away. She wasn't arrogant in her play but she didn't seem to use much effort either.

White men seemed hesitant to approach her, like there was some invisible line that they knew not to cross, or dared not cross lest people see their hidden thoughts, their secret desires, their blatant yearning for her. Bret was to be counted among that population. He was content to watch from afar and observe. Every day, his thoughts of her consumed more and more time. His daily commute to and from work, his time at work and school were compromised by his fantasies. At home alone, he masturbated to thoughts of her and when he was with his girlfriend Amanda, he was thinking of the mysterious woman as well.

For five days straight, it seemed that Bret was in a constant state of arousal from someone to whom he'd never even spoken. Everyone in the office was getting a little nosey, asking where he was rushing off to for lunch every day, implying that he had a secret life, that he was having an affair, just being generally obnoxious. He was afraid someone might follow him so he had taken to using different routes to the park and stopping off at different locations first. His paranoia was unjustified but he was so used to his life being compartmentalized, so fragmented that he compensated by being slightly neurotic. If anyone ever found out that he was aroused by a woman's butts, by fantasies of being smothered by them, he would die a thousand deaths. In his heart, he just knew that he was the only one among his peers who had dark thoughts and fantasies like that.

At lunch, he made his way to the park but he chickened out at the last minute, opting just to watch her play. She saw him watching her and she stared back, letting him know that she was aware of his attraction to her. He went back to the office feeling like a fool and later told everyone that had to leave about an hour early. He made his way back to the park, practically running, hoping against hope that she would still be there. As luck would have it, she was, casually talking and laughing with her homeless crew, talking like they were her peers. Gathering his nerve, he made his way to her table and sat down. "Finally," she said, "what took you so long?"

Uncomfortable with small talk, Bret gave her a half-hearted smile and ignored her comment. "Black or white," he mumbled.

Laughing, she said, "Honey, I'm always Black."

Their game lasted almost an hour but he'd seen her win in four moves with other novice players. It was a good thing that the game wasn't timed because Bret had met his match and he was making him nervous, he made a few careless mistakes out of sheer anxiety. Eventually, she was victorious again; remaining undefeated in all the games he had witnessed her play. He felt drained yet satisfied in a way he'd never felt before. Here was this petite woman, clearly more than just his equal, it was more than evident she was his superior. His intellectual libido was stimulated beyond belief. Throughout the game she didn't say a word, she concentrated. She watched him, studied his moves. Bret was off his normal game but he knew that even at his best she still had the skills to beat him. Of course it didn't help that he was intellectually stimulated which made him partially erect.

Pushing his chair back from the table, Bret extended his hand and said, "Great game, thanks so much." He'd wanted her to win but he never imagined that she could do it without him throwing the game. Her skill set exceeded his which said a lot. Her victory was real and he felt defeated but wildly alive for the first time in a long time as strange as that may sound.

She reached out and shook his hand and replied, "Come on, let's go."

She grabbed her backpack and tossed it to him. He clutched it close as he followed her, running to catch up when he realized exactly what her invitation was; watching her butt with every step that she took, hypnotized by her unspoken power over him. They walked to a bus stop and Bret intervened, "I have a car," but she ignored him. They sat down and she turned to him and formally introduced herself.

"I'm Shauntay, I was wondering when you were going to get up the nerve to come talk to me. You really played a great game. You had me in check that one time and I was thinking that you might end my reign as Queen of the park. What's your name?"

In a million years, Bret never would have imagined a woman named Shauntay would be able to beat him at chess. To him, Shauntay was a ghetto name and people from the ghetto . . . well, it didn't even have to be said. There was nothing ghetto about this woman and as he repeated her name over and over in his head, it began to sound lyrical, beautiful, not at all ghetto. Realizing he hadn't answered her question, he blurted out, "I'm Ted," always thinking of protecting his identity, never wanting anyone to get to know the real him.

Thinking it over, realizing that he might just be in the presence of the woman who could take him places he'd never been, he said, "I'm sorry, I lied. My name is Bret." Still not quite sure he was up to the witty repartee stage of conversation just yet; he remained silent, waiting for her reprimand. None came but the bus did and they got on. He didn't know where they were going, what they were doing; he just knew that he would do just about anything she asked of him. She was brazen, well, not so much brazen as she was bold. Shauntay caressed his body, felt for muscles, caressed his leg and openly stared at the erection she was causing him. The blood boiled in his veins as other passengers watched this open display of groping and Bret was helpless to do anything about it. He loved it and secretly wished she would go even further.

Shauntay kept asking more and more questions, eventually bringing Bret out of his shell as they rode. Every once in a while, she would lean close and whisper sweetly in his ear and send chills up and down Bret's spine. She was equally as forthcoming, sharing details about her life. It turned out that she was 33, which he would have never guessed because she looked almost a decade younger than that. She was getting her Ph.D in Physics which intrigued Bret that much more.

As the got off the bus, Bret was in another world. This was out of his comfort zone; this couldn't be explained by any reasonable construct. He was following a total stranger to God only knows where to do God only knows what. No one knew where he was, he hadn't explained his absence to anyone. His heart was pounding. Bret was terrified that she was going to do something crazy or unhinged but he clearly outweighed her and towered over her. He kept wondering why she wasn't afraid that he was a psycho killer, why she wasn't paranoid that he was going to do something unstable or psychotic to her. She didn't even have a cautious look in her eye. In fact, she seemed to be the one that was comforting Bret.

They reached her apartment, and still carrying her backpack, Bret blindly followed her up the stairs of a two story walk-up to her apartment. She intentionally stopped short and Bret ended up face first in the seat of her pants. He froze there, inhaling her scent openly, hoping to detect the stench of her asshole. Shauntay wiggled her ass in his face, giggled, and opened the door to her home and invited him in.

It was exactly as Bret had envisioned in his mind, it matched who he thought she was. It was small, so tidy it would make any obsessive-compulsive jealous, and obviously occupied by an academic and an intellectual. Shauntay excused herself and left Bret alone as he scoped the scene. There was no TV in the living room and the bookshelves were lined with books about Black History, chemistry, art, travel, alternative medicine, and of course, physics. Her music collection didn't have any artists Bret recognized and the décor was simple and contemporary but accented with pieces that looked like they might have been inherited from an older family member. "What are you writing your dissertation on, uhmmm, if you don't mind me asking," he yelled in the direction of the bedroom as he tried to gain further insight into her without getting caught while she changed her clothes.

"The Instantaneous Quantum Teleportation of Information Across the Time and Space Continuum as it Relates to Members of the African Diaspora." She waited for the pause of dumbfounded silence that followed every time she told someone her topic, and sure enough, like clockwork, 8 . . . 9 . . . 10, he responded, "How did you master the art of playing chess? And those guys . . . you seem . . . so . . . you know . . . comfortable with them . . . how . . ." She didn't answer.

It all seemed too coincidental. She was like a dream come true for him. Most of what he knew of her concretely was learned in the last 45 minutes. For a week, he'd fantasized about her, speculated, surmised but she was turning out to be more than he'd even allowed himself to contemplate. Beauty, brains, the ability to control him with subtlety, and an ass that made his mouth water. His mind couldn't even makes sense of the fact that he was in this strange apartment, waiting rather impatiently for a women he didn't know, for exactly what, he wasn't sure.

Emerging from her bedroom dressed in tight, leather, black pants, a corset that looked like she might have had two or three people in her bedroom helping her tie it so tightly, high-heeled, black patent leather boots that came up past her knees, and a look on her face that inspired sheer terror in Bret. Shauntay was carrying a riding crop in one hand and stood perfectly still so Bret could take in her image. His jaw dropped. She looked like a rare Ebony centerfold straight out of Obeah magazine (without the staples).

He jumped up and reacted almost violently. "Hey, look, I don't know who you think I am . . . or what you think I'm into, but you don't know me. I'm not . . . I don't want . . . Don't you dare presume that I'm . . . that this is something . . . that you can . . . you have assumed too damn much." He was flustered because he was undone by her complete ability to read him. He felt trapped and angry but he wasn't exactly sure why. All he knew was that his chest felt tight, his knees felt weak, his mouth was dry, he'd lost the ability form complete sentences and he was wildly aroused, more than he'd ever been in his life. He was out of his element and in a strange environment. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Look, I appreciate your hospitality and thanks for the great match but I think I better be going."

"OK."