by Sacchi Green
The train wasn’t crowded, but it was public. Terry’s head was thrown back, her eyes glazed over, her hands gripping the seat hard. I was afraid my own breathing was even louder than hers; I was damned sure my cunt was just as hot and wet. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I’d do serious damage.
Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. She fondled her own breasts, and her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry’s equipment, but her focus had shifted to herself.
“Goddamn!” came Terry’s harsh whisper. Or maybe it was mine. Then Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused cunts.
“We’re coming into Hartford.” Terry’s strangled words sounded far away. “We’ll be at the station any minute!”
Yasmin’s voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my neck, echoed through my head. “Sergeant Jo doesn’t have the balls to fuck a sheep!”
I snapped.
I lunged.
With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and began to shake her so hard her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirtfront and the hard edges of my badge.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.
“Damnit, Jo, cool it!” Terry gritted. “And you,” she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, “you little slut, and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word, cover up, or I’ll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform.”
I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again I’d begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “Guess I needed that.”
“What you need,” Terry said deliberately, “is a good fucking. Jeezus, Jo, if you don’t get off pretty damn soon you’ll have not only that international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!”
She was right, which just made things worse. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.
I pushed myself up into the aisle. “Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?”
“You can count on me,” Terry said, and I had to go with it.
There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could and leaned my pelvis against the edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.
As the door slid open a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me, and the door was shut and locked again.
“Sudden attack of patriotism,” Terry announced with a lupine grin. “Have to prevent that international incident. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”
“You and who else?” I challenged.
“Just me. Our little friend is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise.”
I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. “On my mother’s grave!” she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, “On my sister’s grave!” Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry, the quirk of her brow made me realize my tacit agreement. To what, I wasn’t sure.
We sized each other up like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made feel naked. I’m used to being the hardbody in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I’ve never done them going backward.
She retreated a few inches. “Gonna stay in uniform?” she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.
“Civilian enough for you?”
“Hell, no! The least you could do is show me your tits.”
I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I’d never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn’t sure yet just where I might draw the line, but I could give a little. “Fair enough.” I hung my shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway. “How about you?” She had left her jacket behind but still wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.
Terry was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. “Breasts like pomegranates,” she said softly. “Round and high and tight. Geez, don’t they have gravity in New Hampshire?”
I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening as though under an independent impulse; I could sure feel them, though. I grabbed Terry’s vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up just enough to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn’t push the issue of her staying dressed.
Terry pressed closer again. I leaned my mouth against her ear. “Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?”
“Yeah, well, maybe when the inspiration’s right. But then I edit it out.”
She eased back and looked me over again. “I don’t suppose,” she said, somewhat wistfully, “you could jiggle a little for me?”
“In your dreams!” We were both a little short of breath by now, both struggling with the question of who’d get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.
“In my dreams?” There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn’t notice right away when she raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. “In my dreams,” she murmured, just barely stroking me, “you’re wearing red velvet.”
I hadn’t thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She’d worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria; then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off of each other. Eventually, in fact, we did. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.
Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn’t quite ready for that. I did let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over the appreciative nipples. “One time only offer,” I said, “for old times’ sake,” and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered, her knee was working between my thighs, and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.
“Come on,” I muttered, “Show me what you’ve got.” I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled and unzipped and rearranged her gear for action, I kicked off my boots and pants.
She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a second, then grabbed hers and shoved those t
ight leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.
“State of the art, huh?” Eight thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not yet wet. I’d have been envious any other time. Hell, I was still envious.
“This one’s mostly for show,” she muttered. “Are you sure…” But it was too late not to be sure.
“I can handle it,” I said. And I did handle it, working it with my fingers, making her gasp and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in a surreal co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current sweeter than electricity but as sharp. Then the slick material skidded in my wetness and slid along my folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.
Can’t hurt to see how the other half lives, I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.
She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, hungry for the pounding, aching intensity.
But I needed to go after it myself. “Let me move!” I grated.
Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my attempts to swing her around, and the black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together. “What the…” Her voice was guttural, and her eyes glittered dangerously.
We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit beefier; I was taller. She’d been working out with weights and machines; I’d been working over smartass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tiebreaker was that I needed it more.
“You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!” I had her back against the rail now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it and then began some serious action.
For an instant she flashed a grin, and muttered “Fair enough!” Then she did all she could do to hang on to the railing and meet my lunges. The train swayed and rattled, but I rode it, my legs automatically absorbing the shifts, as I rode that black cock, train to my tunnel, bound for glory. The hunger it fed and compounded got me so slippery that in spite of its size, the impact and friction might not have been enough, except that my clit seemed to swell inward as well as outward, and my whole cunt clenched around the maddening pressure.
Terry’s grunts turned into moans. She grabbed my hips and dug her fingers into my ass. “Steady…damnit…steady…” I slowed enough to catch her rhythm and grabbed her leathercovered ass, feeling the muscles clench and her hips start to buck. I mashed my mouth down over hers to catch the eruption of harsh groans, but she had to breathe, and anyway, it didn’t matter how much noise she made. I could feel my own eruption coming and knew there was no way I could muffle it. And I didn’t give a damn.
I held on until Terry’s gasps subsided from wrenching to merely hard. Then I accelerated into my own demanding beat. I saw her face through a haze, and there may have been pain on it, but she didn’t flinch, just kept her hips tilted at the optimum angle for me to ram myself down onto what she offered. My clit clenched like a fist, harder and harder each time I drove it onto her pubic bone. A sound like a distant train whistle seemed to come closer and closer, the reverberations penetrating into places I hadn’t known I had.
Then it hit. My clit went off like a brass gong, and those waves smashed up against the explosion raging outward from my core. Sound engulfed me.
Terry held me for the hours it seemed to take for me to suck in enough breath to see straight. Finally I slouched back against the edge of the sink, letting the slippery cock emerge inch by inch. She reached past me to grab a handful of paper towels. I took them away from her and slowly, sensuously wiped away my own juices from the glistening black surface. When I aimed the used towels toward the trash container she stopped me, folded them inside a clean one, and tucked them into her waistband, avoiding my eyes. I didn’t ask.
Then she looked over toward the door. I’d been vaguely aware at one point of Yasmin, one hand pulled free of the cuffs I’d fastened too carelessly, rubbing herself into a frenzy; apparently, by her look now, with some success. “So, Princess,” Terry said with the old jaunty quirk of her brow, “didn’t I tell you it’d be worth it just to hear her come? I could record that riff and make a bundle.”
“You, Terry, are a prick,” I said lazily, “and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word.”
“I still get the shivers now and then,” Terry went on, nominally speaking to Yasmin, “thinking of that alto sax wailing fuller and fuller. The final trumpet fanfare this time, though, was beyond anything I remember.”
“Jeez, I hope you edit out that kind of crap!” I said, and turned to the sink to clean up. Then I dressed, and felt more secure with my gun belt around my hips. Not that security is everything.
The rest of the trip wasn’t bad. Yasmin watched sleepily as Terry and I chatted about old times, old acquaintances, and the intervening years. Terry got off at Penn Station, offering me a book at the last minute with her card tucked into it; she grinned when I took out the card and slipped it into my breast pocket, behind the badge.
“Moving a little stiffly, aren’t we,” I said as I helped Terry get her duffle down from the rack.
“Mmm, but the show must go on.”
“I’m sure you won’t disappoint your audience,” I said, with an encouraging slap on that fine, muscular ass. “Go get ’em.”
Yasmin made a few tentative advances between New York and DC, but I wasn’t vulnerable anymore, and she gave up and slept for most of the trip. The welcoming party at Union Station was headed by a tall, mature woman in a well-cut dark suit. “The Princess traveled well?” she asked, with a keen, hard look at me.
“Just fine,” I said, meeting her eyes frankly, “with no harm done, if you don’t count a few slaps to make her keep her hands to herself.”
“Excellent,” she said, with the ghost of a smile. “The Sultan would be happy to offer hospitality for the night, before your return trip.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said truthfully, “but I have other plans. I’m getting the next train back as far as New York. There’s a literary event I don’t want to miss.” Terry’s schedule of readings had been scrawled on the back of her card. There was a special private one at midnight. I had a notion there’d be enough erotica groupies to go around. Beyond that, I wouldn’t mind meeting an editor, finding out more about the writing game. I knew damned well that Terry would use some of today’s activities in her fiction. I might just beat her to it.
I’ve gotta edit out that “train to my tunnel, bound for glory” line, though. Too bad. That’s sure as hell exactly how it felt.
BLAZING JUNE
J. L. Merrow
It’s been a proper scorcher for this early in June, and the air’s thick with pollen as they break into Mrs. MacReady’s. I feel like a spare part, hovering by the front door with its telltale pint of semi-skimmed sitting in a little puddle of dried-up spilled milk. If only I’d been here earlier to see it.
“Is Mrs. Mac going to prison?” Billy asks.
“No, love!” I pick him up, though he’s getting too big for that really. “The police are just going in to make sure she’s all right, seeing as she wasn’t answering her door.”
“What if she’s out at the shops? Won’t she be cross they’ve broken her window?”
“Mrs. Mac only goes out on Saturdays, when the taxi calls, remember?” He’s too heavy, so I put him down before I do myself a mischief. But I keep my arm around him. “Is she all right?” I ask the male constable when he comes out again.
He gives me a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ve called an ambulance, but I think she’s just a bit dehydrated, that’s all. Still, won’t hurt to get her checked out.”
“Di
d she have another fall?” I feel guilty for asking.
He nods, but he’s got my meaning. “Happened before, has it? How did she manage then?”
“She’s always been able to pass me a key through the letterbox, and I go in and get her back on her feet.” More and more often, these days.
“Let me guess—won’t trust anyone with a spare key?” The constable shrugs, like he understands what old people are like. It’s a bit of a relief. “We’ll have to contact social services, get her assessed. See if they think she’s up to looking after herself.”
I’ve got a fair idea how that’ll go, and I feel guilty again. But it’s for the best, isn’t it?
“She smells funny,” Billy puts in.
“Billy! What have I told you?” I turn back to the constable, and now the WPC’s there, too. “His dad’s a tactless old so-and-so too,” I say apologetically.
The Woman Police Constable is about my age, probably, though I expect most people would say she looks younger. She’s got pale red hair, a sort of golden color, cropped close so when she turns her head you can see short, feathery hair at the nape of her neck. It looks soft, like velvet. Her skin’s creamy-pale, and she’s got a sort of lean grace to her even under all the kit the police seem to wear these days. Makes most policewomen look dumpy, but not her.
She’s got a handkerchief or something wrapped round her hand, and I realize with a jolt she’s bleeding. “Are you all right?”
She shrugs, and smiles. It’s a nice smile. “Cut myself on the window. I’ll live.”
“Let me look at it for you. At least wash it out.” My eyes dart over to Mrs. MacReady’s front door, with its peeling paint and grimy net curtains over the broken windowpane. She gets the point.
“Thanks. That’s very kind of you. Mark, you’re all right staying with Mrs. MacReady, aren’t you?”