Strangers on a Steampunk Train

Hey there! I usually write silly things, or purely fantasy things, so here is my first attempt at sexy. Based loosely on a real encounter, sans monsters ;)

*****

The train slowed to a halt, sparks spitting into the smoky air. Metal groans and clinks against metal. The passengers of the sparse car bumped up and down in the dim light. Ding. Emeline pressed the pleats of her deep purple dress obsessively. Her green eyes wandered curiously around the car, taking in the faces of her fellow passengers. Two elderly individuals, one in an old-time blazer, the other reeking of musty rose.

"Westkreuz," the friendly voice chirped over the speaker, cuing the stragglers to stand. She pulled a small bronze pocketwatch from the insides of her billowing shirt. 3:39.

She sighed, stretching her neck, an unladylike pop of bone echoing off the muffled, tapestried walls. Steam filled the outside world as the train again lurched forward. She returned the watch. She rolled up her shirtsleeves just past the elbow, revealing a fresh streak of scars around her dominant arm. The velvety red of the tarnished seats shimmered in the twitching gray light. Long blond curls pressed against her thighs as she leaned forward, placing her chin in her hands. Even in the black of night, the vision of endless quarries and wasteland stretched for kilometers without sign of movement. The gilded corners of the next platform came into view through the darkness. Cement and golden trim were lit by a solitary lamp. Emeline rolled to her feet gingerly. She stood tall in her thick leather boots, but remained a head below the men moving across the platform.

Approaching the door, she drew a square metal hook from the leather satchel clinging to her waist. Wrapping the steel around the handles of the train door, with one delicate twist of its heavy dial, the square shrank against the door handles, its inside exhaling mechanically. The next station came into vision: only a few late night workers, oblivious to the world around them, brains likely numbed by lack of oxygen in the mines or, worse, the heavy drugs of the subsurface labor force. All the simpletons who had no idea what was happening in Car #4 of the Westbound train on a weekly, now, almost nightly, basis.

Again, the train ground to a halt. She took her seat and turned her back toward the mine worker pulled at the train door, fruitlessly: it wouldn't open.

"Grunewald," the voice indicated and the worker dashed to the next car. Emeline reached again for the pocket watch. Click. Her stern green eyes searched wildly. The handle to the next car was turning. The door opened, letting in a freezing wind and the shriek of metal wheels. The same downcast young man bounded across the open piping and slipped through the door. He took a seat in the corner. A paper thin red shirt clung to his muscular arms. Classless, dirty brown trousers haphazardly tucked into worker boots betrayed his station. Soft blond hair tressed down from beneath a sooty cap over a heavy brow. He sighed.

"Sir," Emeline blurted out, but his eyes were glued to the ground. Sweaty exhaustion painted on in the dirt-matted skin.

"Sir," she cried, "you need to get out of-" She reached out to grab him, but his head quickly tilted up and his blue eyes locked on to hers. She could feel his gaze taking in her face, nose, mouth. He stared through her, either out of exhaustion or unstoppable strength. Her lips quivered, whichever it was, the man was a solid rock. His deep eyes were unreadable. The snapping sound of electrical currents filled the air and Emeline whirled around to watch as a massive blackness consumed the rear of the car. A whirling hole ripped through space, and disappeared in a flash. The form of a dark-shelled giant spider, legs sheathed in metal, it's ugly head marked with shimmering round eyes stood where the abyss had formed and dissipated.

The creature shake its massive head, scanning the cart. Red eyes fell on her. In her periphery, she saw the unlucky passenger sitting motionless, lost in the vision of the creature across the car.

"Sir, you need to exit the car," she demanded, clutching the dagger closer to her thigh. "Sir-" he lept up and pushed her backward, catapulting her against the seats. Her pale legs flew above her head as she smacked against the wall. The beast let out a ground-shaking growl as something shot through the air beyond her head.

The world swirled back into place as she came to her feet, and the mineworker had engaged the spider. The spindly legs lashed. The man swung back, grunting as his wrench clanked against the beast.

"Please get out of here-" Emeline reached for the man, her other hand rushing toward the weapon concealed in her stocking. The train jostled; her feet stumbled. He clutched her arm silently and whirled her helplessly behind him. "HEY!" She snapped, angrily. A blade-like leg thrust past the man's head. Emeline's head moved effortlessly aside as she pushed the man. "Be careful. You have no idea what you're doing. Just let me-"

"Step back!" he commanded. Again, she pushed him aside, a silvery knife in hand aimed at the spider's bulbous, hairy body. Her arm moved in for the kill, avoiding the man's gaze, hoping to finish the job before he chastised her further. As she drew closer, the spider's fangs, long needles of white and grey, reached for the man's arm just as Emeline's dagger found its way through the beast's gut. It let out a hiss as black spit onto Emeline's purple gown. The creature ripped its head back, dagger stuck through its flesh. It's head and fangs turned to Emeline, who stood empty handed, trapped between the man and the wall to her back. The black throat of the beast came closer, and the man drew his foot high into the air above the spider, and came down with his heel, squashing its brains across the velvet floor. Emeline exhaled. Without warning, she was pinned against the wall, toes hovering above the ground as the man stared through her, as if trying to deduce her story.

"Aren't you charming" he said in a mixture of sarcasm and awe. She rolled her eyes.

"Please. I have things to do."

"Don't give me that. Who are you." She shook her head. The man's grip remained tight. She grasped him arm, hoping to throw him off. It was thick, pumping with bloody adrenaline. Her second hand followed, but she was unable to hold on to the trunk-like arms with her small fists. A stillness fell on them; neither was ready to give in. Her body began to writhe, slowly at first, and then frantic with need to escape. Their eyes met, but he was unyielding. Her fist tightened and she threw a punch against his strong jaw. He cringed, and shook her in his hands.

"Don't do that again."

"Put me down," she demanded, and hit him once more, legs kicking. He slammed her against the wall purposefully. He were struggling, but not with fear. His blue eyes were foggy as his breath became shallow, stuck in his throat like an angry tremor.

"If you do that again we are going to have a problem," he said through clenched teeth. His eyes flickered down tentatively at her body before shooting back to her face. "I've already won, so just answer me." As he watched her face, her hand slowly trailed down to her purse. He shook his head and grabbed the tiny wrist in his fist, keeping her pinned within the span of his left hand. An angry fervor pulsed through her veins.

"Is this how you treat people who save you?" She asked. He responded mechanically.

"Your clothes say you are a local, but your weapon tells me otherwise. You're from the Other City."

"Me? God, no." In a blink, she whipped her left leg up and kicked him square in the gut, sending him tumbling back. He brushed the dirt from his shirt and smiled:

"your form is terrible." She tossed the curls from her face, but they continued to tumble and obstruct her vision. The cool air mixed with the sweat on her legs, sending a chill up her legs and spine. Goosebumps prickled on her skin. She could feel her nipples hardening against the white fabric of her thin gown. She willed them to stop as his eyes finally traced down her face in the tense stillness. Her eyes turned away and her face flushed with embarrassment.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" She snapped.

"Who the fuck are you?" He said softly.

"Who the fuck are you?" His stern lips curled into a smile.

"Your legs are shaking. Tired? No, you're just easy to read. I think you can trust me enough to let me come a little closer, or, rather, you're going to let me come a little closer." The man stepped forward. She stepped back, body rigid.

"Why would I do that?" He gave her no answer, and only pushed her fist aside, grabbing her wrist once more. She watched how his grip once more consumed, in awe at his size and strength. She grimaced in mock rebuff. In his other hand, he snatched her face and pulled it toward his. His lips took hers in a breath, stealing her air, biting her furiously. Her lips followed instinctively, soft against his aggressive control. He led her to open her mouth. In a moment of clarity, she smashed a fist against his chest, half-heartedly. He whispered:

"You're not a spy. You're not a soldier. You're not a local." He could feel her soft skin against his arm and the quick pulse in her wrist. His head touched hers, but her eyes remained shut. His other hand grasped her waist, steadying her, and she let out a sharp gasp. Her muscles relaxed as she melted against his barrel chest. His fingers scratched at her waist, painfully. Her hips tilted back in physical response, rubbing herself against his groin. He held her there, his breath snarling viciously in her ears.

The light from the platform crept into the car. They were close. "Tell me." His grip tightened and she let out a painful cry, writhing against his hard body. On her neck, he planted his lips firmly and aggressively. Her head against his chest with a gasping sigh as she closed her eyes. He cradled her in his arms, clutching her with his full strength leaving her almost unable to breathe. His calloused, square fingers frantically reached down and ran across her thighs and pulled her leg over his hip, opening her up, vulnerable. His touch trailed back up inside of her legs, finding their way to the sensitive, warm space that made her whimper in his ear. She pulled back, words stuck in her throat. His Fingers clenched her buttocks, while the other hand slowly played with the fabric of her dress. With each rub, the fabric moved further out of his path until he could feel the wetness through her stocking. Emeline's head rolled weakly against the man's neck. He breathed in the scent of the lavender oil touched into her hair. Emeline's hips began to buck against her will, pressing his hand deeper, until the stocking were rubbing inside her folds. The train lurched. They were approaching the next stop.

His free hand reached up and pulled her by the hair as he ripped past her undergarments and buried his tough fingers inside her violently, bringing her body under his control. She felt his fingers move in the tight space; there was no hiding the wetness he was slipping through, coaxing out of her against her will. Her nails dug into skin. His eyes focused on the contortions of her face, as he suspended her. Her hand groped for the leather pouch about her waist as she stared into the man's face, red, eyes foggy.

"Well, princess," he whispered. "Not so tough-" she swung a metal baton against his head and he tumbled backward. Meeting her gaze, he smiled boyishly. "You little-" She threw a swing at his stomach and ended with another to the head. He crumbled to the ground and she searched through her purse for a needle. Finally, she pressed the point to his neck and looked down at him.

"Feeling tough, now?" she grinned.

"Name's Viktor," he panted, and recoiled with a yelp as she pierced the skin.

"Night Viktor."