I love New York in warm weather. Everyone’s skimpiest clothes come out and so I walk around all day tripping over rapebait in gym clothes or sundress or a short skirt. All this whining about the male gaze and then you’re practically asking for it. It really whets the appetite.

Maybe you go for a late evening run or you’re just coming back from a walk. In any case, you decide to sit down on a park bench that’s a little out of the way. Shaded. Fewer people. Less noise.

What are the odds that I sit right next to you? Will you mind that I’m already uncomfortably close, invading your space? Will you be brave enough to subtly shift away or will your politeness take over and keep you seated right where you are.

Then I’ll strike up and conversation and you’ll have to respond. At first you’ll maintain your aloofness but you’ll suddenly find yourself laughing and even enjoying yourself. But then things will change. I’ll move slightly closer, my hand will end up on your knee, my thigh touching yours.

And now you feel vulnerable, suddenly aware of just how little you’re wearing. How little protection it actually affords you.

When do you think you’ll be able to say something? When my hand creeps up your thigh, rubbing the inside? Almost touching your panties? When I move one of your hands to my crotch and you feel my rock hard cock pulsing there? When I drape an arm over your shoulders and it rests on your breast, fingers pinching a nipple?

Maybe when I make us stand up and ask where you live? Maybe you’ll lie then? But then, how long would you be able to keep the lie up when someone is following you home.

Or maybe it’ll be so secluded that I’ll just move you to my lap, pull your panties aside and fill your tight little pussy right there in the open.

If you’re going to send me a note be serious and sure of what you want. I’m a finance professional by day and a filthy pervert at night.