The Book

He looked up from his novel, feeling . . . something. From his seat on the bench facing the façade of the train station, he had a clear view of the block, left and right, but could find nothing out of place. He bent back to the words and lost himself once again.

A warm breeze blew over him, ruffling the pages, which he smoothed back into place. At the next wind, he again felt the invisible something, carried to him. Not warm now; chilled and crawling into him. Gooseflesh erupted on his arms. He looked up the block; nothing. Turning to his left, he saw her.

She was 20 yards or so from him, propped against the streetlight. It seemed that was all that was holding her upright. She was young, perhaps 20, with long, dirty brown hair, and he swore he could smell her. She smelled like rain and sex and pollution. He could not take his eyes off her. He sat, staring, until he realized she was staring back at him. Blushing at being caught, he turned away.

She moved closer to him, walking on the edge of the concrete, sidling up to him like a cat. He felt her moving and could not help but watch her. He felt himself beginning to harden, heard his breath quicken. She reached him and held out her hand. He made no move to take it. She growled, low in her throat, and reached down, grabbing his hand, pulling him up. She was strong for a small thing, he thought as he followed her mindlessly.

With her leading him by the hand, as a child would be pulled along, he watched the back of her head as they across the street and through the herds of people gathered in the station. She moved deliberately, forcefully, with no thought to the person tethered to her by a tenuous grip of skin. As he plodded behind her, hypnotized by the sway of her hair, her smell hit him again. A wedge of want sped through him, causing him to pause. Their hands broke from the bond; she stopped and turned on him, spearing him with her eyes. She hissed slowly, pushing the air between her teeth, letting him hear and feel her disapproval. He stared at her for a second or two, reached down and took her hand again. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she smiled a woman’s smile; a hard one, slashing across her face.

Walking more quickly now, she lead him into a protected alcove, pushed him into the cold, tiled wall, and dropped to her knees. He struggled to breathe, feeling her hands on him. Now he was the one being supported, by the hardness of the wall behind him. Her hands went busy, parting his belt, unbuttoning his trousers, pulling the tab on his zipper. He sucked in a breath with the touch of her hands on his secret flesh as she parted his pants and released him. He was hard, thick already, with precum pooling on the head of his cock. She bent to her task, wasting no time, sheathing him in her mouth, circling his hardness with her tongue. Up and down she moved, perfecting the rhythm and sucking him deep, wrapping her left hand around the base of his shaft to hold him off as long as possible. With her free hand, she reached between his legs and scratched the skin of his balls, nipping with her nails, tugging the hairs there.

The sensations overwhelmed him. He dropped his book and reached down to take her hair in his hands; he wanted to see. She shook him off, hair falling back into place around her mouth surrounding him, and returned to his cock, sucking more hungrily than before. The force of her mouth and tongue hit him, and he felt himself begin to seize and thrust at her. His hips pumped, needing to fuck something; her mouth, her hand, it didn’t matter.

She reached behind him and scratched her way down his ass. That was all it took. He was caught. His blood moved faster, burning through him, and his balls tightened. He pushed back against the wall, hitting his head on the tiles, and he let out a painful moan. She didn’t care. She knew he was close and continued to suck and slide him up and down, finally stopping with him completely filling her mouth. His cock rested on her tongue, arcing down into her throat. She began to caress his flesh, undulating her throat muscles, pulling him deeper inside. He started to cum.

When it came, he shoved back against the wall again, just as the first stream hit her throat. She swallowed and the sensation of being eaten forced his head back and into the tiles.

Later, he came to, groggy, and still in the alcove, but alone. His book was gone.