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Two more days passed and Brent convinced himself after waking up alone both mornings that Agent Johnson told him the truth. It couldn't possibly be a nightmare. So on that fourth morning, he steeled himself and headed off to work. Nothing on the street looked different than normal, but he had only sat on the bus for a few minutes before something odd happened.
A young couple boarded and occupied the large back seat next to Brent's place. Instead of sitting down beside her companion, the young lady threw her legs over his and straddled his lap. Brent tried not to stare but found it hard to resist as the couple proceeded to make out in front of the entire bus full of people. Instead of appearing shocked, some people openly watched while others acted as though it was a common occurrence as the couple kissed noisily, their hands roaming over each others' bodies.
The young man lifted the woman's shirt to reveal her firm breasts, and Brent gasped at the wanton display. He shifted in his seat to hide the growing bulge in his pants as his body responded naturally to the sight of bare tits. When the young man brazenly bent forward and sucked a rosy nipple into his mouth, Brent glanced around expecting any moment to hear a shouted admonishment, but none came. Instead, an older man sitting opposite him unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock. Wrapping his fingers around the stubby shaft, he masturbated as he watched the young couple. Had the world gone totally mad?
Brent sat unmoving as the young lady fumbled with her date's pants and then lifted her skirt and mounted him. Unable to tear his eyes away from the copulating couple, Brent watched while the woman bounced up and down in her lover's lap. The sounds of their fucking were unmistakable in the small interior of the bus. The lady moaned and threw her head back, her raven hair swinging about as she rode the man's cock. Brent could hear the wet sounds of the man sucking at the hard pebbles of her nipples. He could smell the scent of the woman's arousal as her moans grew louder. The pressure in Brent's pants became uncomfortable as his cock responded to the titillating display and grew more erect.
Because of his preoccupation with the fucking couple, Brent almost missed his stop. "Wait!" he yelled as the bus driver grabbed the handle for the door and began to pull. "Wait! This is my stop!" Shoving his briefcase in front of the protrusion in his pants, he scrambled quickly down the aisle and hopped off the bus.
Her. She.
Sarah fidgeted in her seat on the bus, nervous anticipation written all over her face, in her body language, in the way her eyes darted back and forth over the passengers.
Then the bus stopped, the doors opened, and Sarah craned her neck to see around the mass of passengers already on the packed commuter bus, to scan the new passengers boarding.
One by one the passengers mounted the steps, entered her field of vision, passed her scrutiny anonymously, until at last… a small, almost inaudible gasp passed Sarah's lips, fingers covered her mouth as if to still the sounds of excitement desperate to escape her mouth. Sarah's eyes locked on the woman. Her. She. The woman she saw every day as she travelled to work. The one she had first seen on a cold, wet, dreary day, months ago, as Sarah nervously made the unfamiliar journey to her new job.
The woman had been forced to sit next to Sarah, in the only empty seat left on the bus. Her perfume was the first thing to enter Sarah's consciousness…subtle, light, barely discernable, but once you were aware of it, it was if it became absorbed into Sarah's memory. She couldn't forget it, could smell it in everything. Several times since that day, she had found herself turning suddenly in the street as that perfume assailed her senses. Each time she had been surprised to see it wasn't the woman. Her. She.
Ever since that first day, Sarah had made sure she caught that bus. Never had she been so regular in her work attendance, so punctual, so reliable. Her weekends were an impatient nightmare of imagination; where she lived, how she lived, what she ate, where she slept, how she slept; Sarah imagined her bathing, showering, dressing; she imagined touching her, holding her, kissing her. She didn't have the courage to imagine further; wouldn't allow herself to.
Several times, Sarah had positioned herself and her bag on the bus seat to prevent anyone sitting near her, until she saw the woman mount the bus, then moving to the seat by the window in the hope she would sit next to her. Today Sarah watched the woman move down the aisle, eyes glancing quickly over the bus, searching for a seat.
And then it happened. The woman caught sight of Sarah.
And she smiled!!
She smiled!!
Sarah could hardly breathe, but she did manage to smile back, moving sideways in the seat, so the woman could sit next to her, which she did, positioning her own bag on her lap.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah turned to the woman beginning to speak, only to find the woman doing the same. They both burst out laughing.
The woman held out a slim tanned hand to Sarah, and spoke her first words. "Hi, I'm Kate."
Carpooling Cheerleaders
“What the fuck did you do?” Sally asked Steven as the SUV lurched to one side, and then slid to the side of the road.
“Blew a tire,” he muttered, putting the vehicle in park, and then shutting the engine off. He pushed his hands threw his hair and sighed heavily.
“Another one?” Jessica asked from the back seat.
“Another one?” Steven repeated her question. “Tabby blew one recently?”
“Yeah, a week or two ago,” Sally answered.
Steven rolled his eyes and ordered his sister’s cheerleading friends out of the vehicle. He walked to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. “Aww fuck,” he growled, slamming it closed.
“What?” Danielle asked.
“She never got the tire fixed; no spare. That’s the donut we blew.” Steven kicked the flat, wishing he hadn’t agreed to car pool for his sick sister and her friends.
The women cursed while Steven pulled out his cell phone. He dialed Tabitha and then hung up to stare at the four women. “Well?” Sally asked.
“Tabby’s gonna send mom and dad out after they get home,” he told her.
“When will that be?” Sally’s voice showed her annoyance, as did her stiff posture and her crossed arms.
Steven shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s their anniversary.”
“So we’re stuck here for God knows how long!” Jessica said, uncrossing her arms and reclaiming her seat. Steven and the other girls followed suit. An hour passed and then another before Steven leaned his seat back and closed his eyes, begging that the Lord would grant him Sainthood when he died, because he had not yet killed the three perky pests.
He wasn’t sure what had awoken him; his eyes fluttered open. He listened to what he thought was silence for the first time in hours. He was wrong. Steven turned and stared into back seat.
“Shh, Sally; he’ll wake up,” Jessica whispered.
Steven’s eyes adjusted to the soft glow that silhouetted the interior of the SUV. The moonlight spilled over the three naked girls that were teasing and stroking each others’ full hips, narrow waists, and upturned tits. His cock jerked to attention as he saw Sally’s hair, free of her ponytail, in the clenched fist of Jessica, who was pushing the woman’s face deeper into her pussy. His cock jerked in response. His gaze shifted and he watched Danielle’s mouth move from one of Jessica’s tits to the other. Jessica growled low, as her hips began to rise and fall with the motion of her friend’s tongue thrusting in and out of her.
Soon Steven had his cock out and his hand wrapped possessively around it. Jessica’s eyes caught his gaze and she winked, before licking one of her fingers and pushing it into Danielle’s upraised ass. He moved his hand in the same rhythm that all the girls seemed to be using, from Danielle’s nipple sucking and biting to Sally’s forceful fuck of Jessica’s sex.
He listened and watched the perfectly formed dames fondle and stroke, lick and suck. In time his balls tightened and his seed coated his shirt, soaked into the material, causing his stomach to become sticky with milk.
“Gonna car pool more often?” Jessica asked, grinning.
“Hell yeah!” he answered.
Another grey seat on a grey platform in a grey station, waiting for a grey train; it suited his mood perfectly, even the weather was grey. He dumped his duffle bag between his feet, sat on the grey seat and checked the time.
There was still twenty minutes to kill. He could get something to eat, but railway station food was as grey as the decor; he just didn’t want to know what was passing for news anymore, so that ruled out buying the paper and he was too broke to buy a book.
Shrugging deeper into his coat and stretching his legs out around his bag, he settled into the only free entertainment – watching the other denizens of the modern transportation system. He spent a couple of minutes watching the pigeons, they were the only living creatures moving, busy in their self important posturing and strutting around the platforms.
Other people began to filter in from the street, coming up from other platforms. The well dressed businessmen intent on making a good impression with the boss; shiny shoes echoing on the cobbles as they dash for their buses to get to the office early – full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes! He smiled after them, poor fools. The boss didn’t give a damn, as long as the bottom line looked good, and was probably far more interested in the length of his secretary’s skirt than the cut of the lackey’s suit.
Next came the secretaries, jiggling along on their high heels. The smart ones wore runners and carried their office shoes, it was much easier to negotiate the stairs and the bus queues without having to concentrate on balance.
Slowly his platform began to fill. There was a different feel about this group. No one hurried. What did it matter if you missed this train, another one would be along later. There was no rush, no meetings to make, no deadlines to keep. They looked different too: no sharp suits, no power dressers in this group – clean and warm were the main criteria, fit and finish came second, colour matching a distant third.
Then he saw her. She didn’t exactly stand out from the crowd. She wasn’t better dressed or more purposeful, but she took his eye. She was like him, didn’t fit in here, was just passing through on her way to a better life. He could see her desperately clinging to that hope, that dream – that her destination would be better. He knew that hope, he too lived that dream.
The train pulled in, the hopeless and the hopeful, the desperate and the dissolute climbed aboard. He hung back, waiting to see where she went. He followed her into the second last carriage and sat in the aisle seat next to her.
Maybe, just maybe, even if the next destination wasn’t any better than the last, the journey might be fun. Perhaps they could share a little human warmth along the way.
Hell, he could dream, couldn’t he?
Commuter Train
Every weekday evening I caught the same train out of London, the last of the rush hour.
Sometimes I could curse the British reserve. Every evening I was traveling in close proximity to a woman I admired. She always looked well-dressed and calm, even in the crush of the early part of the journey. She wasn't young but neither am I. Sometimes she would smile at me, or return my smile, but we never spoke.
The loudspeaker system on the train began to crackle... We still didn't talk to each other.
"I'm sorry," the guard said, remarkably clearly for once, "but a vehicle has hit a bridge ahead of us. We cannot proceed until the bridge has been checked for damage. We cannot divert…"
"…Shortly the current will be turned off and we will ask you to alight from the train and make your way along the track to the next station. I will advise you when it is safe to leave the train."
For once railway buffs could impart their knowledge to an attentive audience. Apparently we had been stopped by the Dunford signals. From those signals to the next station, a minor halt at least a mile from the village it served, would be two and a half miles.
The woman I admired spoke for the first time. I had never heard her voice. She had a delicious contralto tone.
"Two and a half miles?" She exclaimed. "I can't walk two and a half miles along a railway track in these."
She lifted a nylon clad leg to show her black court shoes with two and a half-inch heels.
Someone laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It sounded like schadenfreude. None of us liked the idea of a walk that far in the frosty countryside but I could see her point. Her shoes would be ruined by the ballast stones of the track, if she could walk at all. I felt sorry for her. No one seemed to sympathise. I opened my briefcase carefully, hoping.
There they were. My old walking shoes that I had been intending to have repaired.
"Excuse me," I said diffidently, "would these help?"
I held the shoes out towards her. She looked at the battered shoes and her face changed into a glorious smile.
"Yes, thank you, they would."
She sat down beside me, took her glossy black shoes off and put my old shoes on. She threw her arms around me and kissed me hard.
"Now I can walk to the next station. I couldn't have…"
We waited. She and I were in a world of our own. Her body pressed against mine as we introduced ourselves and started the ritual dance that turns strangers into friends. We had agreed to meet for a date before the guard's second announcement came.
"Good news," he said. "The bridge has been checked and is undamaged. The train will resume its journey shortly."
But she and I had met and would meet again.
They went there. Things happened. They went back. That's the story. And that's what happened, at the heart of it all. They went there. Things happened. They went back. It's what you clutter up those words with that make the story something that people want to hear.
So they went there.
They, the Him and Her, every newlywed young-and-successful cliché in the book. Let's call them Hank and Joanna, real-estater and copywriter, three years into engagement, just short of thirty but still waiting with kids until "things settle down". You know the kind, they think they need to live their lives before having a family, as if that's something else. Think they need to travel to go places.
They went. By bus, plane, train. Let's say by car. A cobalt blue BMW, slick enough to be sexy, sensible enough to be owned, speeding across the landscape, sun blazing, windows rolled down, Hank's elbow resting lazily on the frame, Joanna's bangs flopping madly across her face in the wind. But she didn't mind. It's part of the image, and it always looks good on TV. She lowered her sunglasses and flashed him a confident smile. He smiled back. Of course he did.
They went there. Wherever, really. Anywhere that people go to. Disneyland, Tijuana, the big apple, the moon. But let's make it Vegas. The most "there" of all places. Things can happen in any place, but there, they're bound to happen with flashing lights and a soundtrack.
And so, things happened. It was a good night. A night of cards, drinks, dance and laughter, of whispered puns, of bad karaoke, of Japanese tourist clusters, Black Jack crazy jocks, Elvis clones and young sex goddesses chatting up old big spenders, whispering hourly fees under their breaths. An evening of red wine and kisses, of more indulgence than usual and more lost control than ever. A night of barriers breaking, of hands gripping flesh, of lips sucking skin, of ripped sheets and forgotten protection. A night of want, that for once trumped the caution. A night of a tiny little question reaching a tiny little answer, changing the world.
They went back. They had pondered who'd drive, but realized they were both just as hung over for a breath test anyway. So they kept on the safe side, switched every hour on the hour, stocked up on mints and soda, and stayed at or slightly below the speed limit. Joanna stepped in, adjusted the seat, gave Hank a quick peck on the lips, and drove on. She popped a mint and tried to remember. She had worried about something, just before falling asleep, but now she couldn't for the life of her remember what. Oh well, if it was important, it'd remind her. She was sure of it.
See? We have a story. They went there. Things happened. They went back. All except that, well, that's just life doing what life does best. Happening, while we plan it.
FOR SALE: ARIEL SQUARE FOUR. MINT. 4K NO OFFERS
"If you've got the four Grand love it's yours, I don't care if you're a lesbian gym teacher or what. I just need the cash."
Shelly smiled ruefully. She had given the guy a tour round her re-built Vee four Matchless, but he seemed more interested in her leather-bound curves.
"I've got three-two in cash." She said.
Shelly squirmed as his gut pushed against her when he draped a sweaty arm across her shoulder: "And I've got a punter coming round in half an hour with four and a half love. I'm losing 500 if I let you have it now, but you were first." He leered. "And it's gonna take some persuading to make me let it go otherwise."
"Can I at least have a spin on it? Just to see?" She simpered in her best little girl voice.
Shelly felt nauseated as his arm squeezed a little bit tighter. so that's his hook! Shelly took a deep breath and turned beneath him, pressing the side of her breast into his chest. She looked into his eyes and breathed "Please Daddy."
Now he shivered and took half a step away. "I really don't want to be responsible for a little girl getting hurt on a big bad machine."
Cunt "Well…" Shelly wet the tip of her index on her pouting bottom lip. "Would you like to ride my pillion so I can show you what a good girl I am?" She stroked the sharp nail of the finger slowly down his unshaved cheek. "Daddy?"
He stepped back again as his knees buckled beneath his rounded belly. "Y-yeah, y-yeah" he stammered.
Shelly straddled the bike, patting the seat behind. "Sit here Daddy. Hold me tight."
The guy huffed and puffed eventually depressing 6 of the 9 inch clearance between the sump and the gravel surface.
Shelly took his sausage fingered hands and pulled them to rest on her ribcage. "You wouldn't make your little girl pay all that money for one little motorbike would you Daddy?"
"three-nine." He spluttered.
"How much?" she asked, lowering her shoulders and scooching back beneath his belly.
"Three-eight." He paused and squirmed his finger upwards. "Three-six?" he whispered, clammy palms on each breast.
