Sam loved white asses, he dreamed about them every day. He wasn't obsessed or anything, he just loved them, that was all. He spent a lot of his time pursuing opportunities to look at them, to be nearer to them, closer, one day maybe he'd get close enough to touch one, and do the many things he wanted to do. He used to collect pictures of them from pornographic magazines, the whitest and prettiest of which he'd plastered the walls of his room with. He missed them, those glistening glossy pictures, spread legs and opened buttocks and glossy white thighs. Together the pictures had given his room an appealing light pastel hue that was actually quite bright and uplifting. He'd liked most the pictures showing the women's faces too, looking back over milky shoulders, knowing smiles and clear blue eyes. He'd even covered the ceilings of his room with double spread images. He'd had many images, and stacks of the magazines from which he cut them that he'd carefully built against the wall nearest the bed. When the police came they had seemed quite awed and impressed at his collection, speaking to each other in hushed voices after they'd searched the room. Now he lived in the hostel, and he wasn't allowed to decorate his new room in the same way.
Still, he loved white asses. That's why he saw his new doctor so regularly, why even now he half walked, half jogged towards the center, his rock-music blaring loud in his ears. He'd been instructed by the judge to see her once a week, she would ask him questions, how he was, how he felt, and he would answer her obediently. All the time of course his eyes would steal glimpses at her long white legs, always crossed, and obscured from the knees up by the neat tweed skirts she usually wore. She would speak to him, say something like "We are very pleased by the progress you've made Sam," and he would nod, and smile, and watch her mouth, the neat thin lips forming shapes. Then she would usually ask "Is there anything you want to tell me Sam? Any questions you have about the program for instance, or anything bothering you" and he would usually think of some question- often a question he had asked already in a previous session, like "Why is it so wrong for me to show myself?" just so he could gaze into her large steel-gray eyes, and lose himself in their cat-like clarity (they aroused him immensely) and she would answer "We've discussed this before Sam, showing yourself like you did is wrong, it makes people very uncomfortable, it made those girls very uncomfortable". Sometimes, as he watched her lips while she talked to him, he would unconsciously begin to rub his groin, and she would stop- put her pen down on the table and cross her arms, and he would remember himself and stop. He loved his doctor, and hated these silent reprimands. Once, he had reached for the long blonde/brown hair that fell like a drape behind her ears and over her shoulders, it was so beautiful he felt he had to touch it, to smell it- but she had moved deftly away, pressed a button on the desk, and the door had opened and the male nurse had come in.
This week however he had a plan, he could take it no more, he had to have what he wanted. Of course he told himself that every week. He had bought a small knife this time, he would move quicker then she could call for help and restrain her. He wouldn't harm her, he just needed to see her, and touch her pale white skin, run his fingers between her legs, smell her, taste her... He'd never done anything like this before, never, but sometimes in his yearning frustration he'd considered it.
He would often go to the local park during the summer, sit at his favorite spot amongst a copse of bushes and trees that grew at the foot of a small hill at one end of the park, and there he would watch the women amongst the sunbathers by the paddling pool. He disapproved of sun-bathing, he didn't like it when the white women tanned their skin from the milky hue he found so intoxicating. On one occasion however he'd found a young white girl reading a book near the bushes when he'd arrived. She'd not seen his approach from the other side, and so didn't know he was there. He'd sat only meters behind her for long moments considering what to do. She lay supine, on one side, supporting her head with one hand, the curve of her hip stretching against the fabric of the tight denim shorts she wore, and the sun glared off her pale skin. Her top was a white halter top, and his eyes followed the shaded groove of her spine became her anal cleft, and disappeared into the top of her denim shorts. His eyes had wondered lovingly over her body, over the bony protrusion of her cream-colored hip, the nape of her neck, her bare arms and shoulders, her short red hair, and most especially her round buttocks and long slender thighs. He'd considered molesting her, lying on top of her, prying her legs apart, nudging the crotch of her shorts aside to lap the soft white pussy and pink bum-hole within. And while he considered it he'd carefully unzipped his trousers and removed his rigidly erect penis. The smell of his groin was a little rancid and smelt of old sweat, and slightly of urine, he didn't wash enough. At the time he'd worried the smell would make the girl aware of him, but she continued to read her paperback. His penis was long and wide and very hard, its coal black surface was shiny, a thick pole of varnished wood with a veins, he held its hot girth in his hand and fixed his eyes on the white girl.
He quietly stroked and pulled at his cock for ten minutes, staring at the creamy alabaster skin of the girls thighs and lower back all the while, and muttered to himself "beautiful, white, pure..." as was his habit. He had almost convinced himself to jump on her when she looked around at him, and for one long instant he stared into the blue eyes staring back at him, quizzical and blank at the same time. In shock and fear he had suddenly cum, a strand of white fluid leaping into the air and falling across his right foot. Wretchedly, he grabbing his trousers from around his knees, got up and hobbled away as fast as he could.
"Pervert!" cried a high nasal voice behind him.
Now he walked up the main-street along which the center was located, he told himself this time he would not run away, that this time he would feel a beautiful blonde-lady's warm pearly cheeks around his hard erect cock. Other people passed him by, going about their business. Some of them where white women too of course, but he didn't notice them much (he never saw the ones he'd find ugly or unattractive) but some of them he did, and these he tended to avoid eye-contact with, snatching glances at only when he was sure they had passed. Most of the people avoided him, (he was wearing his favorite coat). Eventually he came to the entrance to the center, he glanced up at the sign above the door on his way up the three steps,
The Eastfield Psychotherapy Support Center
As usual 'the bad receptionist' was there, the one he didn't like (the Irish one didn't usually come in on Tuesdays). The 'bad receptionist' was a black woman, and she made him feel very nervous.
"Ah, Mr Bomobo, you're early, take a seat and Dr Evans will see you shortly" she smiled at him, she was actually very attractive and kind, but Sam saw only hostility. Sam sat down in the reception area and waited, avoiding eye contact with 'the bad receptionist'. He hated this part, the long minutes before he could see the only pretty white woman he could get to actually be in the same room with (sometimes on his days off, he rode the subway, which was kind of the same, but he never got to speak to the sexy executives, students, housewives, tourists and others he would find down there, and anyway they always grew visibly uncomfortable at his ogling).
The 'bad receptionist' watched him occasionally from the corner of her eye. She reminded him of his mother, of the harsh beatings he used to get, or of his Aunt Edith, and her merciless razor tongue, or the girls from the neighborhood and their gleefully rhymed taunts. He always felt defensive around the bad receptionist, and consoled himself with memories of Sarah, the girl who had lived next door when he was much younger. She would sometimes console him, Sarah, call to him from across the fence as he sobbed or played mirthlessly in the back garden, and he'd look around and there she'd be, her pale white arms bare, her gentle smile, her sparkling green eyes, often her mouth working the gum she liked to chew.
He glanced down at the waiting-areas magazines, the long blonde hair of the model on one of them reminded him of Sarah too, of how she'd let him touch her sometimes, and lick her special places clean after letting him watch her pee. Her 'little monkey' she used to call him fondly, and rub his kinky afro hair.
The other black people in that neighborhood hadn't liked Sarah and her family much, and neither had his uncle Joe (who Sam loved dearly but rarely saw). For Sam however, Sarah was an angel, she'd even looked just like the angels in Sam's Sunday-school book. She'd left eventually, when her family moved away, and he'd missed her ever since. After that he'd lost himself in television for most of his spare time, transfixed by the various sexual images of white females that he found there in delightful abundance. Then he'd become old enough to buy porno magazines, and after that his mother made him move out.
Now he waited and waited, thumbing through the women's magazines and looking at the pictures. Eventually a sad looking man came out of the doctors room and left, and the receptionist said he could go through.
"So, Sam, how are we today?" enquired Dr Evans.
"I'm fine Ma'am" replied Sam, starring at his hands.
"Sam, please, call me Dianne okay... I've told you many times I prefer my patients to call me Dianne, or just Doctor if you must, but never 'Ma'am'"
"Yes Ma'am".
The doctor sighed and remained silent for a little while, a slight smile playing on the corner of her lips. Sam's learning difficulties were easy to discern, but that was not specifically what she was trying to help him with. She pushed on. "Okay Sam, have there been any incidents you would like to talk about since our last session?"
"No Ma'am" a patient silence, and then
"How about the pornographic magazines, have you been keeping within the limits we agreed upon?"
"Yes Ma'am, I... I only bought one this week... a
Playboy
Ma'am... n- next week I wanna buy
