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Carefully he looked around for any approaching flight attendants, but there were none to be seen. There were only a few people on the flight, and most of them seemed to be asleep - a few watched the movie. No one looked in their direction.
He stood up and looked down at her. He didn't dare breathe. Carefully, his hand reached out to her, the tips of his fingers touched the soft skin of her upper leg, wandered further up...
... Suddenly she opened her eyes. He stood up straight, right in front of her seat. She stared at him like at a ghost, as if she didn't know where she was.
He tried to smile.
"Hi, I just wondered if you want my jacket to cover up a bit. You must be cold."
(a/k/a Alessia Brio)
Victyr raised the hand nearest the aisle without turning from the window. Outside, early morning fog blanketed the terminal, rendering travelers into a throng of bustling apparitions. He felt his ticket taken, heard the snick of it being punched, and waited for the same two words as it was returned to his hand.
"Pleasant journey."
The familiar smells of coffee and bacon followed the conductor as he made his way through the car. His breakfast never varied, but the odor sometimes competed with that of the fabric softener his wife used. At least, Victyr assumed the man's wife laundered his clothes. He wore a wedding ring, after all, and his collars were always starched.
Snick for the old guy with the musty suit. "Pleasant journey."
Snick for the haggard, young woman. "Pleasant journey."
And so it went. Twenty-seven regulars and a handful of occasionals. He knew all their stops; guessed all their stories. Each traveled alone.
Victyr often complained about the commute, but he could not imagine his life without the comfort of its routine. Each day, he crossed six stops to his destination, spent the day in a purgatory of his own creation, and returned in the evening to a house that wasn't home.
He'd long since memorized the cadence of the tracks and the flicker of passing lights through the crimson curtain of his eyelids. His fellow passengers he knew by scent and by sight but not by name. Save one. An exception. They didn't speak, but the camaraderie of shared silence cemented their bonds. Misery loved company.
By the time the train reached his stop, only he and Mrs. Martim remained onboard. They didn't acknowledge one another until the last of the other passengers disembarked. To do so seemed to violate a code, of sorts. Each traveled alone.
At their destination, they often shared a cup of hot coffee and cold commiseration before parting ways for the day. Her situation mirrored his own. Neither could see any escape.
Victyr shrugged himself into his overcoat as he rose and collected an old briefcase. Stepping into the aisle, he paused to allow Mrs. Martim to precede him.
She sat two rows forward, on the opposite side. Her head was bowed, and she made no move to stand. He thought, perhaps, she'd fallen asleep.
Still loathe to speak, Victyr cleared his throat. No response.
After his second attempt failed to get her attention, he whispered, "Mrs. Martim, time to go."
She turned then, eyes filled with tears. "I'm going on today, Victyr, to the end of the line."
Speechless, he shook his head.
"Yes. It's time."
"I…" He reached for some words, any words. "Good luck, Mrs. Martim."
She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "Thank you. Please, though, call me by given name. Just once. I won't see you again unless…"
He looked down at the back of his hand and the sheen of her tears that sparkled upon it.
"Good luck," his voice cracked, "Joy."
Hitcher
“Can you smell it?”
That wasn't her. That was him imagining. Sometimes he wasn't sure which it was, something real his senses told him about, or something that got made up in his brain.
She hadn't asked him, “Can you smell it?” But the smell of her cunt was real. The car was filled with it. So he didn't roll down his window even though he was too warm.
Bare, sweaty thighs were parted. A triangle of red vinyl seat showed between. He looked away to the first thing he'd noticed when he'd climbed out of the cloud of dust stirred up by her wheels and into her car—panties on the floor by his feet. Red like the vinyl seats and twisted up like she'd just rolled them down her thighs. That cunt he smelled was bare under that black skirt, between those damp, parted thighs.
When he looked up her eyes were on his crotch. When he looked down he saw the shape of his hardon under the denim plain as he could smell her sex. When he looked up her eyes were on the road. Only one hand was on the wheel. The other was between those open thighs, disfiguring the red triangle.
A soft, wet sound came from where her hand was barely moving.
“Can you smell it?”
Stronger now, her sex smell.
“Do what I'm doing.”
Want and fear like a jackboot pressing down on his throat as he stretched his hand toward those spread thighs.
“No. Do it to yourself.”
He wanted to touch the warm damp of her inner thighs, the sticky heat of her cunt. But he undid his fly and wrapped his fist around his cock and watched her hand flex between her thighs and watched eyes her flick between the road and his hand sliding up and down.
Now his smell was in the warm, close air of the car, too, mixed with the smell of her cunt. Like the smell of fucking. When he fucked Alicia, it smelled almost like that. Her soft, wet noises and the smack of his hand every downstroke and her moans and his exhales were almost like the sounds of him and Alicia. Him and Alicia, their bodies, their smells, their noises all pressed up and stirred together. Him and Alicia fucking. Oh Fuck. God.
He'd hitched half way but maybe Alicia wasn't there anymore. She'd stopped coming on visiting days almost a year back, and for nine months, no letters. Maybe Alicia'd given up on him.
The car swerved. They were on the shoulder and she was crying and he thought, with that jackboot on the throat feeling, he'd fucked it all up. Soon there'd be sirens and shouts and cold metal biting his wrists.
“I miss him,” she whispered, staring out the windshield, her cheeks wet.
That was her. She'd said that. He touched her neck and she leaned into him and he felt her flex and shake against his chest.
Looking forward into the haze from a dozen pipes and cigars, I chewed my lower lip and sighed. You were fortunate to get a ticket at all, I consoled myself.
My eyes roamed the passengers, seeking the grey of a uniform. If anyone could be counted on to select chivalry over comfort, it was a soldier. I spied none, but my hope was not lost- I may have been several years beyond marrying age, but that didn't mean the eyes of men had ceased to follow my form. Stepping forward, I walked slower than normal and allowed my shoulders to drop.
Not three steps had I taken before a tall man in a dingy coat leapt from his seat near the front of the coach. I stopped, and for several heartbeats we but stared at one another. Being reluctant to walk forward only to discover he had alighted for some other purpose, I continued my deliberate pace and scanned the nearby seats.
With eyes wide, the man rushed toward me. "Miss Wil.." He gasped, then his chest swelled with a large breath.
Within my bodice, my breast froze. He couldn't know my name, could he? I searched his taut, weathered features, but could not place them.
"Miss," he said, "will you want a seat in this coach? I would be only to honored to surrender mine."
"Why of course, kind sir." I forced a smile. "I should not wish to deprive you of any such honor."
He turned and I followed him back to the third row. There, he motioned toward the empty seat beside what I took to be another gentleman. "Please."
I turned my attention back to the man I took to be my savior. "Thank you ever so much, Mr...?"
His eyes again widened and his throat flexed. "Smith," he said. "Jefferson Smith."
I inclined my head and smiled again. "Thank you, Mr. Smith."
"My pleasure," he said, before turning and scurrying toward the door at the front of the coach.
"How peculiar," I muttered. "It almost seemed like he wanted to..."
"Good afternoon!"
I turned to see the other man had stood. Like Mr. Smith, he was tall, but broader where his shoulders stretched a coat that was a shade darker than his hair and beard, the latter having a few streaks of grey.
He doffed his hat. "Will you be wanting the window or the aisle, miss?"
"The aisle," I insisted. "I should like to collect the fewest cinders possible."
"Of course." The man smiled and motioned toward the seat nearest me. "Please."
I gathered my skirts and slid onto the worn burgundy fabric of the bench. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him looking toward the floor and I glanced downward myself, wondering if I might have exposed my ankles.
"I'm Thomas Larson," he said, settling next to me. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
I smiled back. "To Mr. Jefferson Smith, I believe."
At the heart of parkour is the notion of uninterrupted, efficient movement, adapted to each obstacle that appears in one's path.
"Fluid as water," Lobo muttered as he clasped his gloves on and took a last surveying look over the impossibly steep hill at his feet.
What in hell was he thinking of? It just couldn't be done. He had only arrived to town on business three days before, which meant he had only even met these maniacs for two nights, which meant he had only even seen the course - across, over, and through the medieval borough's narrow alleys, and crumbling rooftops - once. And, obviously, this would have to go down at night. A one-time-only chance of living up to his reputation. Tonight.
"Is everyone ready? It's almost time."
Slowly, as if coming out of a trance, the group started to gather at the bottom of the cathedral's stairs, from where Sebastian had called. In total, no more than a dozen, totally dressed in figure-hugging black, all of them young. Much younger than him, Lobo thought. Shit. He was only twenty-seven and already feeling too old for this sort of thing.
"You all know the rules. Don't get in anyone else's way. Don't be a prick. The first one to make it to the river without breaking the neck in the process wins bragging rights."
Fuck it. You only live once.
Besides, he knew perfectly well what he was doing. Once had been enough. From a small inside pocket, he produced a pair of earphones and held his thumb against the play button, ready to shut out all distractions. He checked the cathedral's tower clock. Yes, it was time. Click. The initial chords of Climbatize started to gradually build up. A deep breath, a step forward, a not to all and to no one in particular.
Ten seconds, twenty. Focus.
At different paces, with different rituals, they all turned toward the city and approached the edge of the lookout platform.
One minute. The music kept gaining momentum in Lobo's ears. He looked back again at the tower clock. One minute and seven seconds later, at the stroke of midnight, the song peaked, and so did his concentration. Every nerve in his body screamed go, go, go!
On queue, a cloud of black shadows vaulted over the granite balustrade and down onto the square fifteen feet below, barely visible under the faint yellow sodium lights. The loud echo of boots hitting the cobbled ground and darting on to the next obstacle threatened to wake the city from its stupor.
Each change of beat in the song signalled the time for a new obstacle, a new movement, a new step in Lobo's planned course.
Two minutes and twenty-two seconds. Lobo half-turned, hung off the edge of a sheer granite wall, and dropped with a roll onto the only steel and concrete structure in sight. The black-clad group flowed down alleys and stairways.
"Fluid as water... More like as a suicide run down white water rapids..."
My head snapped to the right and I stopped dead in my tracks. Her beauty and the way she stood out in a crowd hypnotized me. I knew she would be high maintenance and expensive, but I was in love from the moment I saw her. The way the sunlight glistened on her sleek body drew me to her like a moth to flame. I raced across the street, not paying much attention to the traffic. I had to have her, and I’d do anything to make her mine.
I sidled up behind her and spoke in my sexiest voice, “Hello, Beautiful. Where ya been all my life?” I couldn’t believe the corniest words a man could ever say had just come out of my mouth. I groaned and dropped my head, praying I hadn’t been overheard. I knew I should just turn and walk away, but something held me there, waiting.
She sat there in silence, neither acknowledging my presence nor insisting that I leave. Encouraged, I stepped closer. I let my gaze travel her length, noting her sheer perfection. She didn’t appear to have a blemish on her. The red coat she wore set off her features and the tan leather hugged her as if custom made. My fingers itched to touch her, but caution held me back. I’d come across a beauty of her caliber only once before, and she had driven off with someone else.
I drank in the lines of her body, her curves in all the right places. She looked like the kind who’d enjoy a long drive in the country, or a wild race down the freeway. It wouldn’t matter to her, as long as the radio was blaring and the tank was full. I could picture myself behind the wheel, the wind in my hair and the sound of her voice in my ear, begging me to go faster. Exhausted, we’d drive home, but find ourselves too keyed up to rest.
My heart began to race as I imagined soaping her up, my hands tracing the arc of her unspoiled rear. I couldn’t wait to turn her on and see if she purred like a kitten.
I heard a burly voice behind me say, “Hello.”
In that moment my concentration and my daydreams were broken. I knew right away who he was. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my checkbook.
“How much for the ’41 Willys?”
I was in love, and price was no object.
Just to make you jealous, she wrote an hour later on a postcard to her friend David. Stayed last night in an auberge with a breath-taking flower garden just outside Les Baux de province and ate in a magnificent Guide Michelin restaurant. Can't think of enough adjectives to describe the meal, so I'll just list the dishes. A ravioli of truffle, a steak with wild mushrooms, a delectable Roquefort – sorry, there I go again with the adjectives – and a cream cheese with a coating like a downy pink peach. Along with a bottle of Gigondas. Eat your heart out!
She looked at the picture on the postcard – the typical fountain you find in every village around here, with a rough face carved in stone, a jet of water sparkling in the sun, lavender shrubs in the background – and turned it over quickly to read through her message again. David could be rather fussy about spelling mistakes and the like. She wondered momentarily if the tone was not a little too spiteful. No, she decided, David knew her well enough.
He was a former bed mate who was originally to have toured with her. Somewhere at the back of her mind had been the thought – maybe even the hope? – that they might once again become what they were.
Her mind took her back to Greece. Four years ago, during the summer, they had stayed for 6 days and 5 nights in Lefkada, on the most beautiful beach called Porto Katsiki. She had discovered more about her sexuality in that short week than she had before, in her 35 years of life. He had pushed her, and she had gone willingly to that place she didn't know she could go.
He was a dangerous addiction she couldn't break. But was it that she desired him, or was it the power he had over her?
She remembered the smell of sweat, and sex, and only his forefinger inside of her. The look on his face, as he pulled out of her, and raised it to her mouth. His controlled voice. " You're soaking wet" It was a command and not a comment. His tongue inside of her, while she strained against the cuffs. And later, much later, his hand on her bare skin, leaving delicious, angry marks.
She needed him. But three days before David was to have flown to France with her, he fell in love with another woman, so head over heals in love, that he could not bear the idea of leaving her for two weeks. Which is why she was sitting all alone on the patio of a Provençal café writing postcards to the man who used to fuck her raw.
There had been a time when she had looked down on single tourists who were always assiduously scribbling away on postcards and in diaries, such an inadequate shield against other people's inquisitive eyes. Now she had joined the ranks of those pathetic postcard writers, writing him everything, except what she really wanted to say.
The torture of waiting . . . he would call. Desire is stronger than love.
The Nancy Hanks
It was a hot summer day in June of 1959 when the Nancy Hanks pulled out of Terminal Station and headed toward Savannah. I was always on board the Nancy when it moved. I retired early with several million dollars and had nothing better to do than ride the rails. What that really means is that some really sweet pussy rode the Nancy in those days, and I wanted to tap into my share of it. I had an arrangement with the carrier. I had my own car, painted to match the Nancy's color scheme, and they always put my car at the end of the train to keep the public out of my way.
As soon as the train cleared the terminal, I went to the club car to survey the prey. It wasn’t hard to pick her. She was alone at the bar sipping a mint julep. Stacked. I mean really stacked. Size DDs at least, and wearing a sheer blouse. I walked up to her from behind and reached around to take those beauties in my hands. I nuzzled her neck, planting a juicy kiss just under her ear. Squeezing her breasts, with each nipple between a finger and thumb, I whispered, “Hello, lovely lady. Can I buy you a drink, or fuck you, or anything?”
I felt her stiffen, and then relax. “That depends,” she answered. “What do you really want?”
“Just want to fuck you silly to pass the time.”
“What do I have to do, exactly?” she replied.
“Whatever I say, you do.”
“I’m drinking mint juleps. And I’m married.”
“I can see your ring. Is your husband hung? And is he with you?”
“He’s in Savannah waiting for me at the station. What do you mean by ‘hung’?”
“Is he as big as I am?” I guided her hand to my erection.
She gasped. “Uh… no. If that’s really you, no,” she smiled. Her teeth were pearly white and perfectly aligned. She licked her lips. Her eyes danced. She shivered.
“So, which is it? A drink, or a fuck?”
“Can’t I have both?” she queried.
