Black Lace Quickies 3 (7 page)

His kisses are falling lower now, notes spiralling into a powerful melody. His tongue parts the folds of my sex, dancing over my clit, searching out the entrance to my pussy. Moving within me like a song of flame.

I lift his head and bring his lips to mine to kiss the fragrant, glistening moisture from his mouth. Tasting myself on him; taking myself back from him because all this while he’s kept me safe while I ran. He runs his fingers up into my hair and
down
the back of my neck left bare by the short strands. He grasps the collar of my linen shirt and I hear the fabric tear, feel the touch of air as he eases the ruined garment down my arms. He kisses my shoulder as if to apologise for his impatient passion.

And I don’t know how or why I should deserve this. Deserve him.

I lie naked on the sofa, watching him undress, and I think that he belongs here; his figure before the old-fashioned window, framed by bookcases and hand-carved chairs, that of a hero in a Regency romance. Body hard with muscle, hair long and tangled, the edges just brushing his chin. Serious and sensitive and melodramatic. All that I’ve ever wanted.

My fingers search between my legs to answer the need fuelled by the fantasy, by the longing. He is naked now too, but he stands still to watch, his full cock quivering as he takes in the sight of my spread legs, my fingers moving over the folds of my sex like a maestro’s over ivory keys. He strokes himself, watching me, his gaze moving from my body to my face that I can feel is flushed with heat. In his eyes, I am Beauty.

‘Don’t stop,’ he says as he comes to my side. He kneels and cups one breast in his hand.

The tip of his tongue brushes the nipple and the flesh between my legs thrums in answer. Another gentle lick and I’m melting in moans and
sighs
again. I tap my fingers faster against my swollen clit, fluttering movements driving the crescendo while his tongue plays accompaniment on my nipples, my belly, my parted lips.

He straddles my body, hand still moving along his cock, lips red from my kisses. Like a priestking in some archaic ritual, waiting to offer his seed and his power to the priestess beneath him. Male and beautiful. He rubs the shaft of his cock along my sex and I’m ready to explode with sensation. Yet it’s the thought of what he does – the way he does it, intense and deliberate – more than the action itself that puts me over the edge.

And while I’m still coming, still crying out with the satisfaction of orgasm, I feel him enter me. Feel the muscle of his cock sliding into my pussy, awakening even more feeling, taking away all pretence to decency. I forget the man and can think only of the delicious hardness driving into me.

But then he leans forwards and says my name, voice rough with arousal, and I remember the man. I remember why I have wanted him. All the days and nights of longing, the memories of forbidden trysting. All that I know now. The turmoil of emotion and thought joins the song, intensifying it, and helplessly I’m caught up in it while our bodies move.

The rain has become a torrent, beating itself wildly at the glass. Free and not free; trapped by
bonds
that cannot be seen. By duty. Obligation to fall. And so it falls with relentless passion.

We whisper to each other in short, breathless fragments. Things we should never say: desperate, filthy, loving. We leave bruises and bite marks. Something tangible to last, to prolong what is over too soon in a final burst of motion and inordinate cries. And then I clutch him to my sweat-soaked body, my breasts crushed by his weight, my legs folded tight about his. I press my face into his shoulder, breathing his scent. I’m surrounded by him; filled by him, inside and out. Safe.

The piano wafts sad and sweet over the subdued patter of rain. The music is always free and untethered by fear. The music will always win out over that which threatens to mute its voice. I promise myself that I won’t run any more.

‘How long do you have?’ I ask,
pianissimo
.

‘A few days,’ he mumbles into the hollow of my neck. He lifts his regal, tousled head. ‘Unless you let it be more.’

His tone is quiet, asking for nothing, but his eyes plead. I look away; I still can’t give an answer. I know now that I’ll do anything for him, but old habits and old fears are hard to let go of.

‘Love …’

I shake my head, pulling his back down to my shoulder where I cannot see that gaze of longing. I’m giving in; it’s only a matter of time. The music
is
weaving its spell and soon I will have no defences left. But not yet. He sighs and sinks into my arms, but he knows it too. The sounds of the piano and the rain run together, lull us to sleep. When we wake, he will make love to me again, and I will say yes.

A. D. R. Forte’s short stories have appeared in numerous Wicked Words collections.

Rush Hour
Cal Jago

I SCANNED THE
platform and took a step backwards, turning my head away from the sudden rush of air as the train roared into the station. The tube slowed to a standstill, a set of doors stopping directly in front of me. The carriage was almost empty. I picked up my briefcase and moved to the edge of the platform, pausing as a familiar sensation fluttered in my chest. The doors whooshed open and I strode along beside the train, passing two more sets of doors before I found the right one. Commuters were crammed into the tight space, squashed against the glass, tucked into the curves of the doorways, pressed up against one another. The perfect carriage. The perfect playground.

As the alarm sounded, signalling the imminent closure of the doors, I placed an impossibly high-heeled shoe on to the train, forcing my way into the heaving crowd. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in almost ten years of commuting, it’s that there’s always room for one more – when that one more is me, obviously.

My last-minute entry meant that, as the train lurched into action, I was totally unprepared. The
sudden
movement flung me off-balance and straight into a fellow commuter. Not very dignified, but, as I looked up and saw my buffer, I realised that my being propelled into a stranger was something of a blessing. He was just right.

He was in his thirties, fair-haired with beautiful cheekbones. I smiled at him as I straightened myself up. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He smiled back and looked a little embarrassed, the way people do on public transport when someone forces them into communication. ‘No problem.’

I continued holding his gaze until his eyes flicked to my left and then down towards the floor. Except he wasn’t looking at the floor.

‘If I will insist on wearing silly shoes …’ I continued lightly, shuffling a pointed toe in his direction.

He looked up and I noticed his face redden slightly.

A shy one. How sweet. How absolutely perfect.

I smiled again and then turned around so that my back was towards him, quickly scanning the area immediately surrounding me. A man who looked far too hot in far too many layers of clothing was fanning himself with a copy of
The Times
to my left. Beside me, on my right, a studenty-looking girl was staring into space tapping her fingers in time with whatever was playing on her iPod. Directly in front of me, with barely an inch of space between us, a middle-aged man was
engrossed
in a Sudoku puzzle, a phenomenon that had frankly passed me by. There are much more exciting things to do on train journeys than number-crunch. Believe me, I know. And, just for your information, before I’d crashed into him, my man had been reading a book – a John Grisham novel. Not very original, but strangely reassuring. Safe men read courtroom dramas, don’t they? Psychos don’t, I was sure.

As we raced into a tunnel, I very slowly and deliberately bent down, placing my briefcase on the floor. I moved from my waist, keeping my legs and knees absolutely straight – terrible for the back, I know, but, sometimes, needs must – and, as I busied myself with pointlessly positioning and repositioning my bag, I slung my weight onto my left hip.

Bingo. The weight shift had done it. My arse had swung slightly to the left and edged back a little, so, as I forced myself to lean lower still and made a show of hunting for something in my bag, I felt my buttocks brush against Grisham.

He cleared his throat and I felt him move. Whether he was trying to escape the physical contact or increase it, I couldn’t tell, as I quickly straightened up. I stood in front of him, much closer than was necessary, even in spite of the fullness of the carriage. My behind was still touching him but the contact was barely perceptible. I felt his breath, hot and heavy, on the back of my neck. This looked promising.

We slowed down and jolted to a stop at the next station. Sudoku was on the move. Perfect. We all edged a little away from him, giving him space to manoeuvre. There was only one direction I was going to move in: backwards. The doors opened, we created a pathway for his exit, and he was gone. I stood pressed closely against Grisham, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against my shoulder blades and the nudging of his toes on the back of my heels. And there was no mistaking what else I could feel stirring against my arse.

I edged my right leg behind me and pressed the back of my thigh firmly against his hardening cock. I shifted my weight again, slowly grinding against his crotch, and felt a burst of hot breath blast against my neck. Game on.

I bent down again, lingering to scratch a nonexistent itch on my shin, and swayed my hips from side to side, just enough movement to cause the friction I wanted. His breathing was shallow now and my knickers were distinctly damp. I straightened up and was surprised to suddenly feel his hand on my hip. His fingertips pressed into my skin, pulling me harder on to his cock. I continued to rock against him but was finding it difficult to remain discreet.

Determined though I was to keep control of myself, there was something I could not resist any longer. I eased my body away from his and felt his grip on my hip tighten. I reached back
and
gently rubbed the palm of my hand over the front of his trousers.

His fingers trailed along the curve of my hip, then grazed my arse, fluttering across the material of my tailored trousers. He began to caress more insistently, rubbing and squeezing my flesh, and then he drove his fingers between my legs in an effort to force my thighs apart. How easy it would have been to allow him to touch me there. But that wasn’t part of the game. I twisted my lower body away from him.

I heard a low groan and quickly reached back, keeping the rest of my body at a safe distance. I closed my fingers around him, feeling his heat as I gripped his hardness, and I squeezed along his length, imagining the sight of him, his cock straining for release. I sensed the tension in every muscle in his body as he tried to keep his composure. He was struggling. He was not the kind of man who let strangers grope him on the train and he certainly wasn’t the sort of man to make an exhibition of himself. And yet here we were. Even through the fabric of his trousers, I began to feel his cock pulse and twitch. He was going to come.

Perfect timing. As he tried desperately to hold on, we screeched into the next station. The doors opened and in a lightning moment I had released him, picked up my bag, barged past the student and exited the train.

I didn’t look back, though I’d have liked to see the state I’d worked him into. I was curious as to whether the vision of his cock through his trousers was as impressive as the sensation of it in my hands. There was no doubt in my mind that it would have been. And I’d have liked to see the expression of sheer bloody disbelief on his face. It was an expression I’d seen so many times before – because sometimes I did look back – and it was one that sent an electric spasm between my thighs every time. How totally broken apart and lost they looked and how exhilarating to have been the cause of such undoing.

But, seconds later, my thoughts took a darker turn, as they often did. He would undoubtedly be pissed off. Would he really let me get away with it? Or would he follow me? Stalk me along the platform, shadow me through the exit barriers and track my movements on the streets above? Would he catch up with me, whisper angry words in my ear and demand to claim what had been promised? In short, would he be so desperate that he’d hunt me down and fuck me? And would I be so desperate for my own release that I would let him?

Needless to say, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He would feel frustrated. Enraged, probably. He would think the word ‘bitch’, say it aloud even, a hiss of bitterness under his breath. But, ultimately, he wouldn’t want to make a scene.

I always enjoyed the rush of those first couple
of
minutes afterwards. Because no matter how many times I’d done it, or how confidently I strode, or how much absolute trust I had in my intuitive ability to choose my playmate for the journey, there was always, always, the very real possibility that I could fuck it all up. There was always a chance that I’d pick the wrong man.

The cacophony of voices, traffic and general city noise brought some clarity to my frenzied mind as I exited the underground and made my way along the busy street above. But, still, my body was buzzing as I walked the familiar route to work.

There had been countless Grishams. My first hit was accidental, so I suppose it doesn’t really count as a hit, but that was what started it all off, so I feel I should mention it. I had left work later than usual and was in a panic because I was sure I was going to miss my train, which in turn would have led me to be late for a dinner date with my then boyfriend. I’d sprinted down the platform, my heart sinking as I saw that the train was packed. A seat was out of the question, but would there be standing room for one more? Well, of course there was, but only just. It was the tightest of squeezes. I forced my way into a vestibule area at the back of the train just as the guard blew his whistle and the door was slammed shut behind me. There were so many of us in that tiny area, all standing in far closer proximity than we would have in any other circumstance. As the
train
rumbled along we all rocked together, bumping into one another a little, stumbling slightly and reaching out instinctively to keep our balance. I was pressed against a businessman: tall, broad, fortyish. We stood facing each other, my cheek almost touching his shoulder. We were a few minutes into the journey when I finally realised exactly where my hand had ended up when I’d tried to grab something to prevent toppling over. I felt myself blush but, as I went to remove my hand, the man took hold of my wrist, keeping me in position. All things considered, I guess he was a bit of a pervert. But, judging by the immediate drenching of my underwear, I guess I was too.