Package Transit Ch. 02

Night comes, and with a sigh of beneficence a cool wind stalks with great spider-legged clouds, climbing down from the Appalachian Mountains and banishing the humidity back to the Sea. Rain patters against your window as make straight for your bedroom, locking the door and sealing yourself inside with your fantasies and your small collection of sex toys. You dim the holiday lights strung along the edge of your ceiling, azure and heliotrope glow bathing your sanctuary in oceanic colors that remind you of your own ancient homeland.

A full body-length mirror sits at the foot of your bed, strategically placed so you can...watch yourself, to grow visually familiar with what feels good when you pleasure yourself with your fingers or a dildo; and, of course, you've enjoyed the self-voyeur of seeing a man's cock thrust into you, or a woman's hips roll against your own.

Monstrously lurid, unwholesomely sexual imagery paints itself across your vividly illuminated mind as you lie back and watch yourself masturbate. Your lovers for tonight, rather than someone plucked from that little black book to be wined and dined, are a charming pair. One is a long, bright red anatomically correct cock you've affectionately named Richard, his partner a pink clitoral stimulator with a spinning, slurping head...you love when they work in tandem.

Fittingly, your mind is focused on not one of the men you've been publicly inappropriate with...but both at once. This is a sin Anastasia, you're not supposed to be thinking about:

...standing before them both in crisp, pure white lingerie, your modest breasts cupped in silk that barely covers the chocolate darkness of your nipples, that barely rides up over the shaven smoothness of your mons. Cream colored stockings encase your muscled thighs as you run your fingers up the insides of your legs temptingly, displaying your brazen need for them both. You imagine them perched patiently before you...restraining themselves from ravaging your form as you slide your panties aside -

- watching as the swollen, hungry lips of your pussy open around Richard; you slick him up and down your vulva, kissing his cumslit up underneath the bud of your clitoris. You pull the fat swell of your toy's crown downward toward your opening, painting it with your juices as you caress and squeeze your breast. You make eye-contact with yourself as you bring Richard's helm to your lips, tasting your own cream and imagining -

- the two of them, reclining back on that couch...shirtless, their bodies revealed for your greedy fingers - the nails of your right hand hiss through that bad-boy's light chest hair, the left tracing along the crevices of definition on that nameless IT agent's shoulders. You relish the difference between them...one is built like a warrior, the other sculpted like a swimmer. Your mind's eye fills in the details of what you felt through their pants, fingers tracing over the twinned hardness of their arousal. At your soft command, they bare themselves to you; belts clinking unbuckled, flies unzipping, the sound of cloth sliding away until they're revealed to you.

You push Richard's veiny girth as deep as he can go, feeling no need to restrain your cries of need as the stimulator whirls around the nubbin of your pleasure. Your juices drip, copious and creamy, staining your sheets - your partners had adored the volume of your juices...but more than that, all of them had agreed: you were singularly skilled with your mouth.

Across the detailed screen of your imagination's theater, you gaze thoughtfully upon them both. First...your lips travel up from the base of your dark lover's shaft, slurping lewdly back and forth along the swell of his frenum, and you pull away to pump it slickly with your hand before looking at your other lover's manhood. Your mouth seals around him, a luxuriant kiss, and you bring them close enough together that they both drool their barely restrained payload against your lips.

This sort of fantasy was solely forged from the stuff of your dreams of course, since most men were unusually squeamish around each other's bodies, and because the courage required to actually try and put this sort of together was beyond you...or was it?

You recall a time in your (slightly less) wild youth, when you were 'dating' two men who were, in fact, best friends; one a fine sculptor, the other a silver-tongued poet...and though you'd come close to bringing them both into your bed, it had never truly materialized, to your chagrin. This, though...your realms of possibility had expanded manyfold; your little black book was replete with names and numbers but none of them fascinated you like the bad boy on the train, or the sleek company man.

You'd had the strength to reach out and take what you'd wanted, and not just once...at least three times already, and wasn't that magic number 'three' significant? In the marshy darkness of your deviance, your mind lingered upon all the wonderful things they could do to you; your thighs quiver as you turned Richard basted within you heat, climax threatening -

- to overtake them both as your lips work over their fruit-plump thickness, pressed together against the tip of your tongue. You softly stroke your hands over both their shafts, a loving kiss delivered against the underside of each fulsome helm. The telltale, subdued throb of their plateau - you recognize it, and pull away just a little infuriatingly...only to sit back on your mattress, sliding your soaked panties down your legs. An elegant and lewd command to come and take their turns with you tugs them your way; the man you'd 'met' on the train, he's the first, his curved haft wetly sliding between your labia, a dollop of pearlescent semen dripping over your mons before -

Your cellphone ringtone obnoxiously interrupts you. Your eyes snap open, flustered beyond any composure but with little choice you answer your manager's call...the sheer nerve of ringing you at 8pm, and for little more than to take him through tomorrow's itinerary with that over-demanding toad of a finance minister.

When you hang up the line, a blush of bright pink crawls across your tawny cheeks as you notice the stain of your erotic fluids across your sheets...good Lord you needed to do this, you at least needed to be well-bedded for the first time in months, but...specifically by one of them.

You quickly finish yourself off, toes curling and fingers gripping the sheets as climax rips through you, but the heat of the stolen moment has passed. You lie there, staring up at your ceiling, naked and throbbing with release, wondering just how far the Devil on Your Shoulder would tell you to go the next time you encountered them...and you sincerely hope you would.

The next morning comes; you slept little that night, tormented by lurid, nearly lucid dreams of their simultaneous touch...when you awaken you remember nothing but a blur of sweat-sheened flesh, of your tongue dragging across muscled abs and turgid shafts, of their hips working in tandem to bring your dream-self across the peaks and valleys of pleasure.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You have a big day ahead of you, and then it's over...the minister goes back to Changsha, and with it your pressures evaporate; will you go back to your normal, boring self, or free of his burden will you spread those slutty angel wings of yours?

You: Maybe I can just be a normal person without slut wings and ask his number?

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Which one? The cute guy from the train, or that suave fellow at your company? Neither? Both?

You: I can't decide - can we just talk about this later?!

The Devil is mercifully silent as you pull a dark-rose colored, fitting dress over your trim form; nothing overly suggestive, flitting gracefully along the tightrope astride 'sexy' and 'professional' but sure to grab the right kind of attention. Underneath, taking inspiration from your lurid dreams...a filigree-edged, snow-white thong brings out the callipygian curvature of your glutes; the dress dips just low enough in the front that hints of your cream colored brazier, holding your pert B-cups in place, are visible to the errant eye.

It occurs to you, as you step out the door, that you don't even know their names...were you really the kind of woman who would go further down this libidinous rabbit hole?

This whole thing is driving you mad.

Upon your sylphlike shoulders sits the Atlas-burden of your looming meeting with Finance Minister Jun, a feeling akin to anticipating a long and tedious hospital visit. Jun has been painfully exacting, demanding every aspect of your system explained in detail through his poor, overworked translator; you ignore the fact that your manager had told you to dress to impress today, and focus instead on getting this done and over with.

Your thoughts evaporate like sweat on the flat-iron hot sidewalk; the sun is simply beating down from the sky mercilessly. You can't help but think of Dante's Inferno and wonder if you've been condemned to the second circle. That, after all, was reserved for those afflicted with the sin of Lust, and the weather is so unbearable you try to hail a taxi through frantic waving and various ride-call apps...though it appears that option has also been considered by the working masses, as none are available.

No choice but to take the Metro (how convenient this lack of choice, the She-Devil points out).

A spare consolation, it's somewhat cooler beneath the earth than under the yellow-hot gaze of the sun, glaring at you like a jilted lover. The reek of human sweat permeates the subway around you and combines unalluringly with your peppermint-and-new-car perfume. The municipal government had declared a heat emergency today and you'd have expected less people on route to work. You were fortunate to squeeze your way underneath a vent drooling coolish air over your perspiration streaked brow, and tall enough in your Santorini-Deluxe high heels that you could peer over the heads of most of the commuters.

Would you see him today? Or...would it just be your luck that on this day as you look particularly sexy, he ends up staying home, or taking another means of...getting wherever he goes?

...you note some unusual types on the train today - mostly college aged, dressed in camouflage...black...red...they're carrying placards and signs with them that are small enough to fit on the subway or foldable, and they're muttering heatedly amongst each other. You are unable to make out the exact content of their signs and words, and truth be told they're not the object of your interest, especially not once you see him.

You almost didn't recognize him as he's similarly dressed, but your eyes easily pick out the shape of his physique beneath that black, sleeveless shirt...it hides little, as do the black jeans that really bring out the shape of his surprisingly strong legs. And of course, yes, your eyes hang there over the convex of his bulge.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: You are truly shameless, Anastasia...and yet, there he is. You two have been boarding the same subway car for...what is this, three days in a row? You know what they say.

You: Rule of three.

He's not looking at you for some reason - doesn't he know you're here as well, on that same subway car?

You clear your throat surreptitiously...glancing at him and furrowing your brows in mild frustration at the way he gazes at a small, dog-eared hardcover library book in deep contemplation. You cough once demurely and look away, casually watching a Skittles advertisement play across a wall-mounted screen...then at your phone, then the floor, oh god you're being such an awkward mess.

What is this, some strange, public mating ritual? You feel like a flamingo fluffing her feathers, but not too obviously...can't let him know you want him that much, as if your prior wanton behavior didn't give away your shameless lust.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Maybe you could just stop being a weirdo and talk to him -

You: Impossible, don't be ridiculous.

Hopeful, you hazard a glance - there has been some filing and milling of the subway crowd, though the crush isn't as great as you're used to. Perhaps only a few unsensible workplaces have condemned their employees to the same oven-trek through the City as yours had. Where is he...? Did he get off the train without even noticing you -

-kSSSt- "NEXT STOP PATTERSON AND THURMAGAUNDT." -ksssSSST-

Oh no not at all, you sense the gravity of his presence glide by at the passenger interchange, and his fingers brush so temptingly over your hip.

Definitely on purpose - why, why does that turn you on so much? You can feel your belly fluttering, your clitoris hard and thrumming between your labia as your eyes follow him over to the corner of the car where you 'met' the first time, and...ohhh you see.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: An invitation. Are you going to take it?

You: Of course. I'm not gonna fuck this up.

Images from your fantasy invade your mind, uninvited yet wholly welcome, as you casually sidle through the crowd of sweating, kvetching people and end up standing close behind him, gazing at his reflection in the subway window...a mistake, perhaps. It is hard to look away, he really is your type, or perhaps a type you never realized you had.

Unbidden, he turns to face you, making eye contact - bold. Realizing he's looking at you with unabashed interest, you take it as an opportunity to scan his visage more closely; those sharp, dark eyes of his are so serious, with defined, black eyebrows. The more you stare, the more you puzzle over his extraction...a Chinese parent, maybe?

A trio of steel rings glitter in his left ear, a stud through the right; for as corporate as your job demanded you dress, you loved a man with ink or metal. The corners of his mouth are tightening, quirking upward...is he trying not to laugh? Oh god did you do something embarrassing again? No, worse, that's not a humorous face, that's the face of someone who knows you're a total pervert who likes to mess around in public, with STRANGERS no less.

...so why are you still staring? Maybe it's because of the way the lines of muscle in his shoulders slither like pythons under the skin. You were used to slender, almost effeminate men with their sinewy shifting but this has a whole different sense of strength and solidity. He could probably pick you up, pin you against the wall with ease, and how eagerly you'd wrap your legs around his waist to goad him on -

The subway lurches forward and you lose your balance, so of course you stumble into him...at the least he catches you so you don't go sailing across the aisle like that one horrible time where you ended up dislocating your shoulder.

His touch is tender on your upper arm and hip, and this close you catch his scent profile when you brace a hand against his chest. Hm...fruity, from his shampoo; he's not wearing deodorant, just the recent impression of a shower and some off-brand bar soap. His sweat, which smells pleasant; it makes you bite down on your bottom lip.

"You okay?" the baritone thrum of his voice is gentle; playful and inviting, it carries the smile he's keeping off his face as he talks to you...you wonder if he's trying just as hard to look serious and not overly interested as you are.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: He's nervous and confident at the same time. Do you need any more of a signal from the guy?

"I am, thank you," you reply with formal grace, almost stuffy, even if the grin crawling across your face is anything but dignified. The wheels are turning in his head, like he's looking for the right thing to say to you - you appreciate that sort of consideration from a guy, even if you'd already, y'know, slicked your arousal all up and down the bulge of his erection through his pants.

"I'm not gonna lie, I was really hoping I'd catch you again today." There it is, he's smiling back at you - gosh he's cute. Your fingers drift along the back of his hand, a test of sorts, and he passes by returning that touch with a sort of legato, caring control.

"Here I am," you purr back in your accented alto - you note the way his pupils dilate, the sharp intake of his breath...does he like your voice? "What are you going to do about it?"

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Daring girl. That's more like it.

-ksssSST- "NEXT STOP CORDOVA AND SIMEON." -kssTsssT-

His eyes crinkle at the corners adorably, you can actually tell how giddy he is...like, really happy to be talking to you. Is this real? "For starters I was hoping to get your name and digits before you miss your stop again."

It's spicy enough that you bat his chest lightly and laugh. "You're good, you know that?" you spread your fingers gently across his clavicle, underneath his shirt. "Okay fine...My name is - "

-SKRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

The subway car is plunged into an inky darkness, and the train judders violently on its emergency brakes - metal upon superheated metal shrieks in agony like a legion of ferrous newborns, threatening to pop your ear drums. The sudden inertia nearly takes you off your feet in the opposite direction, but your stranger takes your wrist and pulls you against him. The force with which you both slam into the metal floor rattles your teeth in your head, though without him to cushion your fall you might have broken something.

Of course, a good five or six passengers end up piled upon you, knocking the wind right from your lungs.

Crimson emergency lighting bathes the limb-tangled chaos as passengers right themselves, apologize, and above-all, complain. Your nameless companion helps you to your feet, sliding the strap of your purse around your shoulder. "Are you hurt? You fell really hard."

You've forgotten what it's like, that tone of a man's voice actually concerned for your wellbeing. You're about to assure him that you're fine when a familiar, wheezing voice blares to life over the intercom.

-kSSSSSssSST- ATTENTION PLEASE, DUE TO A DISTRICT WIDE BLACKOUT WE ARE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING A CESSATION OF TRANSIT ACTIVITIES. PLEASE REMAIN PATIENT WHILE CITY GAS AND ELECTRIC WORKERS RESTORE POWER. -kssSSSSt-

You: Oh no, oh no no NO I'm going to miss the meeting with Minister Jun! Do you think he'll understand?! It's not like I control how well insulated our power grid is - oh god, I should have taken a Bolt or something -

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Don't you see how this is perfect?

You: ...what are you talking about? This is a disaster.

The Devil on Your Shoulder: Only if you're fool enough to let this opportunity pass you by...here you are, 'alone' with him. Alone enough for your taste anyway.

Alone, and for as long as it took Pomdufond's finest to get electricity back up and running, which meant the roughly...fifteen to twenty minutes you'd hoped to catch with him could go on far longer; a situation ripe with potential.

For the other passengers misery reigns supreme; most of them mill about, sit tight, or have drifted to where they'd stood before being hurled against the ground. He leans against a shadowed corner near where the train cars connect; in this case it is almost private enough for you to have this moment with him.