Package Transit Ch. 01

Your last meeting of the day with the Minister of Finance from Changsha ends mercifully; it's going to be a long elevator ride unfortunately, since his cadre is scattered throughout the entirety of the skyscraper. At least you don't have to talk...but unfortunately it's getting claustrophobic by the 95th floor. There are at least sixteen chatting, talking suits around you, most of them older, doughy men from Hubei who showed absolutely no interest in your presence.

At the 92nd floor...it got positively tight. How many people could this damn thing hold?

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Hey...Hey, Anastasia.

You: Nope. Now is not the time -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: There's a man in the elevator.

You: There are many men in the elevator.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You know exactly what I mean...the man behind you. The man you've noticed before here, oh so many times, drifting along in a Great Cloud of Knowing, like the king of his own little pocket realm. You like that, don't you...

...it's true. You do like that about the man standing behind you and slightly to the right - you'd never asked him his name, no reason had ever truly presented itself to make his acquaintance, though you'd often watched him. You realize this is the first time you've seen him with his hands free - normally they're occupied with a tablet, a laptop, or carrying some nameless tangle of network technology you couldn't identify.

As with many of the men you found yourself drawn to, he's tall, with the body of a track runner. His deep, walnut-dark skin and pale gray eyes were a color contrast you found fetching, and he always carries himself with leonine regality in his noble-colored blazers. Today he shines in silver, with matching, fitted slacks over his long legs. Clean-shaven, his hair cropped short, his visage looks as if it were carved by an expert hand, angular and aristocratic. A pair of platinum-framed glasses rest on the bent bridge of his nose, the reflection of a tablet-screen held in the busy, oily hands of the finance minister playing across the lenses.

Surreptitiously (perhaps a little too much so) you crane a glance over your shoulder at him, down the buckle of his belt and...

The Devil on Your Shoulder: See that? Of course you do...it's hard not to notice the shape of his manhood beneath those slacks, isn't it; not the first time you've looked either.

You: What is up with me today?! I'm not normally like this, it's like...it's like that guy on the train addled me, or you're doing something to me!

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Don't blame us for your deviant behavior - come now, I'm here to keep you honest with yourself. You just want both of them.

You: I don't even know his name...

She doesn't respond, it'd be too easy.

When your eyes drift up from his groin, you find him smiling at you. You're taken aback by his inviting warmth; it's as if he's waiting for you to say something to him - but that's not really your style, is it? You quirk your lips upward at him, a coy cupid's recurve, and examine his reflection in the steel doors of the elevator.

90th floor...it opens, and a few more people jostle for entry, squeezing you all together - unsurprisingly you find yourself...pinned against him.

Ugh this city just has too many people.

Your hand is resting on his thigh, pushed there by the rotund presence of the Minister ahead of you. This tall, dark man chortles suave as modal, quiet enough that only you can hear...certainly not inconvenienced as much as amused. Once again, the moth wings of temptation flutter in your lower belly, and you find yourself achingly aware of how close you'd been to cumming on the train, only to be denied when you had to rush onto the other side of the platform.

The back of his hand rests against the round firmness of your ass, and you can see that he's making eye-contact with you in the reflection of the elevator doors...with almost rehearsed simultaneity, bare movements within the packed confines of the elevator, your long, delicate fingers drift feather-light up his leg, a cheeky expression covering for the brazen shock you feel for your inexplicable reactions; his hand climbs up beneath your dress, and you find your thighs parting almost of their own accord...eager for this stranger's touch.

You explore the bulbous, juicy crown of his manhood, caressing it through the smooth fabric. He's got a really nice dick, and your imagination immediately begins to mold an image of his sizable, big shaft. You press your lips together, cheeks puffing out slightly as you restrain an involuntary gasp when he gropes further still, pushing past the seam of your sheer panties to find your smooth, goose-fleshed skin. You can feel the ridge of his cockhead in your gentle grasp, his length giving a winsome pulse as you track down to where it thickens at the base, meeting his balls.

His fingers have made the questing journey toward the cleft between your thighs, and you feel them move curiously over the dampness that has, once again, started to cling to the material of your underwear. You consciously work to keep your breathing steady and even when he splits the pink, swollen slit of your pussy, traveling toward your clitoris which practically quivers with the need to be touched; you can feel his precum soaking through his slacks, warm to the touch.

Just hours ago, you'd eagerly stroked, and practically fucked that pretty, musclebound boy's bulge against your sex, now here you were doing something of the same thing to this tall, svelte man in a packed elevator...

What was it about being in public that got you going like this, lately? Your fingers are moving in little circles over the place where his cum is soaking through, hot against his fly; you hear him sigh, his cock twitching against your touch. If you keep working, will you be able to get him to ejaculate...? That's not appropriate, not in such an enclosed space...right? Oh fuck he's touching your clit, oh god he's plucking it like a harp and it feels really good.

And then suddenly you're on the lobby floor, and everyone is filing out, Mandarin and Hubeinese chattering around you. That doesn't stop him from pressing your little pearl like a button once more, triggering a mini-orgasm that causes your legs to tighten around his hand momentarily as your cheeks redden and you use every last ounce of your will to keep it together before he pulls his hand out from under your skirt, smirks at you knowingly, and drifts out to meet a small group of suited men, waiting nearby. He laughs it up with them like nothing had happened back there.

How?

Why?

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Don't you remember telling Lola about your thing for messing around in public?

You: Please don't remind me...

The Devil on Your Shoulder: It never went away. You were just too ashamed of the way she responded, how she made you feel disgusting, but she's gone now and these men are game, so...that's how and why.

You have to get the fuck out of here and back home.