Package Transit Ch. 01

Against your better judgment, what you'd sworn was a singular (and later, a double) act of impulsive perversion on your part had become something of a ritual, every time you saw them now. Such behavior was as foreign to you as these shores had been when you climbed off the boat, but like a shape of light freed from arbitrary, ethical moorings, you'd painted a wholly new, terribly lascivious self-portrait...and you liked the satisfied being you saw.

It started when, not for the first time, you decided to listen to the smooth-talking, sleek devil on your shoulder. The context was a day like many others, defined by the chaos of public transit; the red line had gone down (again), and with the kind of inefficiency you associated with underpaid, overworked transit officials scrambling to get through another work day, they piled into the train car ferrying you to your job.

-KssSsst- TANIS AND POLASKI. PLEASE -WHEEZE- ACCOMMODATE THE EXTRA PASSENGER LOAD, WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE, THANK YOU -kssSt-

Oh no.

The doors open, and humanity spills in fluid-like to fill the space. Three times you are tossed like a slender, shapely bit of driftwood in whitewater rapids that stink of bad cologne and swamp-country breakfast, even as you grasp for the handlebar futilely. You find yourself forced up uncomfortably against the steel-panel wall of the car, a TV screen eagerly delivering the news in Spanish.

-kssSSt- GOREK AND SMITH -wheEEeeze -KSSst-

You brace yourself, holding on desperately to your tiny patch of space, like the baroness of a ravaged little land through which The City's barbaric proletariat rampaged and rather than being torn away, the stream of humanity pushes against you.

But this time something is different.

You become exquisitely aware of a man's body pressed against yours from behind, and hear the little devil whispering in your ear.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: There's a man behind you, Anastasia.

You: I know. What of it?

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You can feel him...he's tall like a tree, his shoulders are broad, and look. His forearms.

You look and quietly 'ohh' at the way tendons stand out like cables beneath his pale, auric skin; they're straining to push against the wall and, you realize, the undifferentiated mass of people behind him. Why was he...?

The Devil on Your Shoulder: He's trying to keep you from being crushed you horny dolt. He's being nice...so don't go thinking too hard about how you can feel the buttons of his shirt, his stubble catching in your hair, and ohhh...the shape of his chest. It's a nice chest, isn't it.

You: Stop that!

The Devil on Your Shoulder: And unlike almost everyone else, he smells good. What is that, Anastasia? A bite of mint from his toothpaste? Just a bit of sweat from traversing the morning heat?

You: Maybe, but -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: - and...that...is...his...package. Against your ass.

You have nothing to say in response to yourself, because the Devil on Your Shoulder is (as always) correct: the bulge of his masculinity is pressing on your rear, but only momentarily as he leans his hips back to keep from further dishonoring you, a woman he is unacquainted with. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispers to you in an accent that is certainly not Dixie. Aghast at the situation, he unintentionally delights you with a feat of strength as he pushes the complaining, griping crowd back and gives you a few centimeters of breathing space.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Pffft. Acting sweet. That makes you want him even more.

You: I don't -want- him, I don't even know his name -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Oh Anastasia, you know that's never stopped...and besides, why, oh why then, are you grinding back against his cock?

...good question. Why, in fact, are you looking over your shoulder at him with sultry, parted red lips, hooded dark eyes, slowly sashaying your hips side to side against his groin? Why do you, in fact, love the way you can feel him twitching toward hardness?

His breathing shifts, and you feel him strain against the impulse of bucking against you.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Look at how he's controlling himself for you, Anastasia.

You: I'm weirding him out / I don't want to stop / I kinda don't want him to control himself.

This little dance persists for three more stops.

The train car empties of some of its passenger load, like a great whale disgorging the contents of its guts onto the beach of the subway platform before being filled back up again mercilessly; with the ebb and flow of riders he pushes back to give you some room before the two of you are crushed together again, and you feel his pecs, his abs, his rock-hard manhood. It's really impressive the way he pushes back against the brackish river of pink, tan and dark flesh, and each time he is shoved against you, you grow increasingly bold.

First, you grind the plush softness of your ass up and down the distinct shape of his shaft...and perhaps unable to resist the call of his masculine instincts, he delights you by rolling his hips back.

When he returns again, you actually widen your stance and open your thighs, exhaling a little puff of ecstasy when you feel him his shaft press against you, soaked and slicked beneath the silk of your underwear.

You actually mold your body against his and actually reach up and around to touch his face, looking at it in the reflection of the window. "I'm not a pervert, I swear," he whispers, among other things. "It's these pants, honestly," and "...so you doing anything later?" You don't say anything back to him, and part of it is your own inclination toward mystique, but also you're kind of...staring.

You: My gosh, he is...really good looking.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Interesting, isn't it...at once your type, yet not a type you've explored. Better though, look at those pretty, dark eyes of his...they're long like a fox's. Mixed heritage, perhaps?

You: Maybe...he's a bit mysterious, no? He has such a nice mouth.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You're thinking about it doing things to you, like kissing your neck, your shoulders, sucking your nipples -

You: -am not -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: - licking your clit -

You: Stop! Stop stop, I'm not -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Yet here you are, stroking and playing with his cock.

It is true. You are reaching down, exploring him from his tip down the haft of his lance. Through his cargos you easily make out the engorged shape of his glans, the girth of his shaft; you touch him down to his testicles, and when you finally reach your stop, you give him a little mysterious smile, and squeeze out, through the crowd.

For the rest of the day you burned with self-ridicule, your head hung with the chain-weight of shame.

When night fell, you told yourself ardently that you wouldn't ever do anything like that again, even as you take out your new curved, fat blue toy with its vibrating little ears. You buzz and fuck yourself, purging yourself of your own depravity, promising that with this orgasm your mind would be clear, and yet...

You're picturing him holding you against the wall of your apartment, staring heatedly into your eyes as he ruts his cock into you, churning your juices and leaving them dripping down his thighs. You fantasize the texture of his lips and tongue against yours, of how your nectars would make his shaft shine and his balls drip with you.

The next day, waking up refreshed and actually leaving on time for once, you discover that the Red Line is, indeed, down for the entirety of the week. You'd been forcing yourself not to think about the nameless subway passenger, to focus instead on the project awaiting you at work but the knowledge that this situation has the potential to repeat itself has your heart dancing in your chest.

What if you see him again? Should you ignore him if he talks to you? It's unlikely, millions of people pass through the subway everyday...but...what if?

You join the queue; you climb on and find, of course, that all the seats are taken, so you search for a safe place and brace yourself for the passenger rush, and dismiss the chance that you'd see him again -

Oh wait, there he is, you see him in the reflection of the window at the head of the new flow of commuters and he's moving incredibly fast toward you, holding his arms out to stop himself. This time, you turn to face him and calmly watch as his hands smack against the wall on either side of your head, looking up at him coolly.

You both regard one other wordlessly; he's admiring you with some surprise, though you wonder if he'd purposely chosen this entrance on the off-chance he might see you again.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You hope he did.

You: You don't gotta mock me...

The Devil on Your Shoulder: I never meant to imply he didn't...what if he did?

You can't help but enjoy the way he looks at you, since you did put a bit of work into looking nice today...not for him, of course. Even though you're really glad you're extra looking put-together today.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Interesting. He's kind of got all the features you liked on your ex-boyfriends, only he's...

You: Ripped, I know. I didn't think I'd like muscles but -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: - you do, don't you.

You: I do.

This...nameless man stops fighting the horde of humanity and their irresistible current, although he's kind enough to push back against their pressure lest you be compacted against the cold, misted glass window. There's just enough of a tiny bubble around you that his skin and clothing barely touch yours, and you only now take the time to notice his casual attire...come to think about it you'd never seen him in a collared shirt or anything vaguely professional; you take more time to notice him.

It's an ongoing effort to maintain that bubble around you, the way his almondine eyes roam down your athletic figure with intent, bare centimeters of space between your lips and his, such that you can feel and smell his peppermint breath. It isn't as if you, a veteran of the public transit system, haven't been in such close proximity with someone whose name you didn't even know, but this is far more like a simulacra of sexual intimacy than any unintentional breach of personal space by a stranger.

Tension crackles between you both as you take him in. His dark brown hair is cut short, dancing on the edge between stylishly messy and casual, and his jawline is pleasantly smooth, though your gaze crawls along scars and nicks that run like dry riverbeds over his skin.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Is he dangerous? Not your usual fare...you've always liked them just a little effeminate and soft.

You: I don't go for bad boys, and I'm not starting now.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Liar.

It is true, he possesses an edge that reminds you of ground steel stropped against a leather band, with his aquiline nose and high cheekbones; you would be hard pressed to place his ethnicity. Mixed perhaps, his eyes are deep-set but you note an epicanthic fold; the shadow of dark stubble clings along the lower half of his face, surrounding a generous, if sheepish smirk. "Fancy seeing you here again."

You don't say anything back...part of it is the maintenance of your own sense of glamour, but you're also struck quiet, searching for words as you stare at him. The little devil on your shoulder is right, he isn't your usual fare but he has many of the features you found attractive in a line of ex-boyfriends and flings both memorable and forgettable. The lines of his physique are temptingly visible through the white cotton of a T-shirt; plain, but for a string of crimson Chinese characters in the center - 批評小熊. Hmm...your mind drifts briefly to your upcoming meeting with the Minister but like a virtual particle vanishing back into the ether, the thought dissipates back into the ether.

"So...actually, I was thinking the other day - "

-kssssT- NEXT STOP FOR BAXTER AND DUVAYRA -KssSSsst-

He's interrupted by the next rush of sweat-sheened flesh on to the train, and you actually watch cracks appear in the plastic before even his considerable strength gives way and the sheer mass at his back presses him against you.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Ahhh this again...tight up against the wall but it feels like you're the only two here, doesn't it. Makes you feel a little more...confident? Daring, perhaps?

You: ...perhaps.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: What do you have in mind this time, you deviant? Are you going to just...let your hand stray again, or do you intend to one-up yourself?

Your palms are flat against the cuirass-hardness of his chest, you can feel the war-drum of his heartbeat under the fingers of your right hand. He smells like Old Spice, and you spot a bead of perspiration trailing down his neck; your most unacceptable, unCatholic instincts instruct you lap it up. The ferrous hardness in his eyes melts aside when he gazes upon you - you see it, softening like a rainy day, tempting as honey.

You: *Watch me.*

The inside of your ankle snakes gingerly along his calf, your long, caramel-dark leg curling around his as you close the space between the fulsome, masculine bulge in his camo-fatigues and your own feminine heat. The pressure of your closeness with him, the growing hardness of his cock both send a low-thrumming stormfront of tingling need through your pelvis. It's...one of the hottest things you can recall in the waning years of your wild 20s, grinding yourself against a desirable man while surrounded by people.

His body obfuscates you, even as he's caught in your movements and rolls his hips back against you - unbidden a breathy, feminine exhalation of delight escapes your throat. Your painted lips hang open and you know your expression must be positively libidinous, like a doe in heat...sharing it with a man whose name you don't even know, the clitter-clack of the train track a convenient cover for the rapidly increasing tempo of your breath. Your panties are growing wet - god you're going to leave a mark on his fly, but it's so hard to care in the heat of the moment.

"Unnhh..." it shivers forth across your tongue, like pink mist crawling from your throat.

"Hey..." he whispers, his hand moving from your shoulder to lightly caress your face - the timing is amazing, so sweet you don't notice he's trying to get your attention, and you're actually starting to reach a plateau that will soon vault up into the cloudy peaks of your climax.

You grip the collar of his shirt, squirming your hips in the throes of an approaching orgasm against his girth.

"Nnnhaa, hey..." he tries again, even as he clenches your ass; you feel him buck against you, an uncontrolled thrust that brings to mind images of your fists gripping sheets, of his powerful body looming over you, fucking you in the mattress.

"I think this is where you get off," he whispers.

Ffffuck yes it is OH SHIT

You were so caught up in the stimulation of the moment that you completely missed the staticky announcement, your stop passing you by minutes ago; your thighs quivering underneath your skirt, slicked and slippery with your arousal, a near-transcendent awareness of time and space blossoms fearfully in your mind.

Your slender frame slips through sliding doors with cat-like grace but like a newling fawn your long legs collide with each other and nearly send you tumbling onto the platform. It's a bad enough spaz-move that he must be sneering at you, his eyes (and other commuters') following your rocket-dash to the other side.

Your cheeks are bright like maraschino cherries, your nipples rubbing against the soft material of your shirt, sensitive little diamonds and you're so wet it's embarrassing.

What fit of madness had come over you in that man's presence, as if the Little Devil's whispers were the overture of her possession? You catch your breath, unable to resist looking back when you reach the stairwell.

He's pressed against the glass from the chest down - the imprint of his musculature is clear to see, and oh lord there is an obvious wet spot over the hard, long bulge in his pants that you'd been pleasing yourself upon. In public no less.

By the time you finally make it to Baxter and DuVayra you've recomposed yourself. Up the elevator and onto the street, a couple blocks jog to the office in the swelter of the Gulf Coast summer has you perspiring like a sweat-basted sow. Fortunately, when you reach the air-conditioned sanctuary of your office - a space you'd slaved for at the whim of monstrously wealthy yacht-owners - you're able to lock your door, lower the shades over the crystal-glass windows, and strip out of your perspiration-coated blouse and skirt, as well as your underwear, potent with the scent of your lust.

Your ex-girlfriend had been possessed of outsized wealth, and often spent it on any number of new outfits for you to wear for her - consequently your closets at home overflowed, so you kept a few changes here in your suite. A fresh, periwinkle dress and white cardigan, crisp and free of any evidence of your...incredibly risky, debauched public conduct; the picture of soft, feminine purity.

Still...the rest of the workday crawls by, the dull throbbing need between your thighs like the bell of some profane temple of lust, ringing through meetings and compiling reports. Your thoughts keep flittering to him, reminiscent of a locust jumping between branches in the peach tree of your imagination.

What was he like? Based on what you'd seen, he may have actually been a sweet man under that rough, yet sharply cut exterior. He'd certainly seemed to have your wellbeing at the forefront of his mind, even when you were massaging his crotch.

The chances of seeing him again are slim, and you didn't even catch his name, so...your mind is drawn to the little black book you keep in your dresser drawer. There were a few boys and girls you could ring up for a good time - drinks and some potentially mind-blowing sex.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You're thinking about calling Stacy, with her questing, deep-delving tongue...oh, or maybe Max? His balls are magnificent, and you've gotten to experience them.

You: I...maybe, just...train-guy, he's different.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: He is; and coward you are, you didn't ask him his number. You just not-so-dry humped him against a corner like a fucking adolescent. Anastasia, I thought you left this part of yourself in San Eduardo - I like it.

The truth of it settles on your withers like a hooker's kiss. You're not in your right mind...you have to get home and fix this.