This must be my Audible week! (Can't you hear me?) My Lambda-finalist Lethe Press collection A Ride to Remember is now available as an Audible book, and I've just heard that my Cleis Press anthology Wild Girls, Wild Nights is available for preorder as an Audible book as well. Noisy (or at least audible) sex is the best kind! http://www.amazon.com/Wild-Girls-Nights-Lesbian-Stories/dp/B00I0F7ELA/ref=tmm_aud_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1391036429&sr=1-1
@Audible_com
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Does "Bullwhip, Bull Rider" Ring Your Chimes?
I don't often remember to mention it, but I post a blog every other Monday on the Oh Get A Grip web site, home to enough erotica writers to fill two week of blogs on predetermined subjects. Today (Monday, Jan. 27) is my day, and the subject is supposed to be "Patience," but I cheated and posted a hefty snippet of a story that will be coming out later this year in She Who Must Be Obeyed, a lesbian femmedom anthology edited by DL King for Lethe Press. My story is "Bullwhip, Bull Rider," so if that strikes your fancy, go on over and check it out.
http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/?zx=a310aa93030f74e2
http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/?zx=a310aa93030f74e2
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
A Free Christmas Story
This one isn't erotica, even though there's a bit of sex in it. I wrote it last year for a Secret Santa project where folks specify three items that have to be included in the story, and then readers guess who requested what and who wrote the pieces. The requests I had to include were a cute little kid, dirty socks, and a clock that doesn't work. I deduced which member of that forum had made the request and just what cute little kid living in Europe she had in mind, so the story was extra fun to write.
A Little Bird Tells All
I used to be able to tell Saint Nicholas a thing or two about who is naughty and who is nice. “A little bird told me” is not just a saying, you know. The birds outdoors see many things you might wish were kept secret, and we indoor birds—even I, who might well be called an in-clock bird, only popping out to announce each hour—see more than you might realize, and tell it, too, if Santa asks.
My problem is that I have not caught up with modern times. It is so difficult to know what counts as naughty these days, and what is nice. For more than fifty years I saw nothing at all, hidden away behind old trunks in an attic.
When the little blonde girl found me I was overjoyed. So sweet, so sunny, so angelically innocent in appearance—and with such skill at using all these things to get whatever she wants! But I would never tell on her. Without mischief, childhood would lose much of its charm, and Santa knows this as well as anyone.
My concern is more with her aunt. Scarcely out of childhood herself, she seems to veer from niceness to some very strange activities indeed. It was certainly nice to bring the child to the old attic to search out toys from her own youth (toys so broken down from misuse as to be beyond repair, but interesting nonetheless.) And her astonishment and delight when her niece, festooned with dust and cobwebs, dragged my clock out from under heaps of rags in a far corner, was everything the finder could have wished.
“Look, Auntie! A bird clock, with leaves and flowers and little animals, like the ones we saw at the Christmas Market, but those cost far too much money!”
“You’re right!” She picked my clock up with care and handled it gently. “I never knew we had such a thing in the house! I wonder whether it still works.” So far, quite nice. But then, as they made their way down the narrow stairway, she muttered to herself, “I wonder how much we could sell this for.” Not so nice, and of course the little girl heard her.
“No Auntie! We can’t sell it! You must…you must have it in your bedroom, so the little bird can keep watch over you!” The angelic glow on her face lit up the dim hallway.
So of course she got her way, for a while at least. I was dusted and adjusted, and admired by the granny who had just returned from shopping and did remember that her own granny had had such a clock, though she hadn’t known it was still in the house. My song of “cuckoo…cuckoo…” counting out the hours was much admired as well, even by Auntie’s visiting friend, although I didn’t miss the way she nudged Auntie in the ribs and smothered a laugh. Still, this young woman was nearly as angelic in appearance as the child, so I held to my first opinion that she too was very nice.
But that evening, all my ideas of nice and naughty, good and bad, were thrown into a turmoil of doubt. The granny had gone to help decorate the church for the next night’s Christmas Eve Mass. The little girl, worn out from playing in the snow with cousins (and with Auntie and her friend, both as nice as is at all possible when snowballs are involved, or so the child recounted,) was sound asleep in her room downstairs. The two young women, quite likely also worn out from outdoor play, were sprawled on Auntie’s big bed.
I can only see a very little of a room while I am inside the wooden clock, but I can hear, and all seemed calm. They chatted in low voices that grew lower still, but as the hour of ten o’clock neared they seemed to be rested enough for some sort of indoor play. The bedsprings creaked. If they had been boys, I would have guessed they were wrestling; but perhaps, these days, girls play at wrestling, as well. Times do change.
On the hour, I sprang forth with my “cuckoos,” and only with the most strict control did I keep from stuttering before even five of my ten calls had sounded. They were wrestling indeed, and with no clothes on! Auntie glared up at me, snatched a dirty sock from beside the bed, and hurled it upward and over me so that I could see no more, though I could hear her friend laughing so hard the bedsprings creaked even more loudly. The worst part was that the sock wedged around me when it was time to retreat into the clock, which stopped the clockworks from working properly, and I was stuck half in and half out.
“Poor bird!” the friend said, still laughing.
“It was watching me with those beady little eyes!” Auntie said. “And mocking me with those silly noises!”
So she goes firmly onto the naughty list! I thought. “Silly noises,” indeed! And the noises the pair of them went on to make, after a short pause, went so far beyond silly as to sound downright frightening. Auntie in particular seemed to be doing something quite violent to her friend, who was gasping out sounds without words that I thought must be cries of pain. If only my woodcarver maker had thought to supply me with some sort of siren or other means to summon the constabulary! I could do nothing, wedged into my little doorway by a sock that had clearly been sweated into copiously during the day.
At last the sounds subsided into sighs and soft words. I could make out just enough, through the muffling of the dirty sock, to realize with amazement that the friend had found the whole encounter to be very nice indeed. When they began their wrestling again, this time with Auntie more on the receiving end, I rather wished, smothered as I was by the sock, that she really was in pain, but I was not surprised when she ultimately sounded most extremely satisfied with the proceedings.
Eleven o’clock came and went, and twelve, with no assistance from me or the stopped clock. I judged it to be about seven in the morning when the bedroom door creaked open. I heard the little girl gasp, and something grated across the floor, and then small fingers reached up to tug away the sock. I saw that she was standing on a chair she’d dragged over in order to reach high enough.
“Auntie, why is there an old smelly sock on the little bird?” Her voice echoed all the scolding tones she’d ever been subjected to.
Auntie, with the coverlet pulled up to her chin and her friend muffling laughter under the pillow, tried to sound soothing. “Sweetie, his sounds kept waking me up, every hour. A bedroom is really not the right place for a cuckoo clock. And besides, don’t you think he’d like to see the Christmas tree in the parlor, and all the candles, and the gifts when we open them on Christmas morning? Let’s move him out there. He can hang on the nail where that picture of a wild stag hangs now, and I’ll bring that one in here.”
The child agreed, but still cast an accusing look over her shoulder as she left the room, and could be heard tattling to her granny about the dirty sock Auntie had put on the cuckoo bird.
“Do you think,” the friend said, “that you’d rather have a big-eyed stag watching you than a little bird?” And her shoulders shook with laughter until the bed creaked again, but only a little.
So that is how I came to be waiting for Santa in the parlor while the red coals in the fireplace reflected off the sparkly ornaments on the tree, especially the colorful foil-wrapped Szaloncukor. “So, my little friend,” he said when at last he arrived. “Have you anything to tell me about the people in this house?”
I struggled to speak, but my tiny mouth, such as it is, was full. Santa peered closer. “What have they done to you? This doesn’t look good!” With a flick of a finger and a twist of his hand, he had me cleared of obstruction, and the clock running just as it ought to. “Now tell me, just how naughty have these folks been?”
“It is…well, it is so hard to say! The crumbs in my beak and inside the clock are explained innocently enough. The little girl didn’t know any better. She thought I deserved a treat, after the way her Auntie had treated me, so she crept in here after everyone was in bed, and tried to feed me a bit of poppyseed cookie. She had seen her Auntie feed seeds to the birds in the yard in cold weather, and thought that I would like them too.”
“So what did this Auntie who is kind to birds do so unkindly to you?”
I told him, in general, but added, “I did seem to be intruding on a most intimate occasion, so perhaps she could be excused. Not but what there was certainly a high degree of naughtiness going on, seen from one viewpoint, but for those involved it was clearly very nice indeed.” I twitched on my perch, which is as close to shaking the head as a wooden cuckoo bird can manage. “Santa, I try to do my best, but this world is so far from the one I remember! There is no telling now what is naughty or nice!”
“Just tell me this,” Santa said. “Are they kind to each other, more often than unkind?”
“Oh yes. I think they all truly love each other.”
“Well then,” he said, “that is all we know on earth, and all we need to know.” He spun around once, with amazing grace considering his portly bulk, and a stack of gifts appeared beneath the glittering tree.
It was midnight, as it is always midnight where Santa is delivering gifts. I rode my perch out into the room and began my song, while Santa departed for his next destination, but even over my aria of a dozen “cuckoos” I heard him exclaim, “Merry Christmas to all, and welcome to the twenty-first century!”
_________________
No on H8
A Little Bird Tells All
I used to be able to tell Saint Nicholas a thing or two about who is naughty and who is nice. “A little bird told me” is not just a saying, you know. The birds outdoors see many things you might wish were kept secret, and we indoor birds—even I, who might well be called an in-clock bird, only popping out to announce each hour—see more than you might realize, and tell it, too, if Santa asks.
My problem is that I have not caught up with modern times. It is so difficult to know what counts as naughty these days, and what is nice. For more than fifty years I saw nothing at all, hidden away behind old trunks in an attic.
When the little blonde girl found me I was overjoyed. So sweet, so sunny, so angelically innocent in appearance—and with such skill at using all these things to get whatever she wants! But I would never tell on her. Without mischief, childhood would lose much of its charm, and Santa knows this as well as anyone.
My concern is more with her aunt. Scarcely out of childhood herself, she seems to veer from niceness to some very strange activities indeed. It was certainly nice to bring the child to the old attic to search out toys from her own youth (toys so broken down from misuse as to be beyond repair, but interesting nonetheless.) And her astonishment and delight when her niece, festooned with dust and cobwebs, dragged my clock out from under heaps of rags in a far corner, was everything the finder could have wished.
“Look, Auntie! A bird clock, with leaves and flowers and little animals, like the ones we saw at the Christmas Market, but those cost far too much money!”
“You’re right!” She picked my clock up with care and handled it gently. “I never knew we had such a thing in the house! I wonder whether it still works.” So far, quite nice. But then, as they made their way down the narrow stairway, she muttered to herself, “I wonder how much we could sell this for.” Not so nice, and of course the little girl heard her.
“No Auntie! We can’t sell it! You must…you must have it in your bedroom, so the little bird can keep watch over you!” The angelic glow on her face lit up the dim hallway.
So of course she got her way, for a while at least. I was dusted and adjusted, and admired by the granny who had just returned from shopping and did remember that her own granny had had such a clock, though she hadn’t known it was still in the house. My song of “cuckoo…cuckoo…” counting out the hours was much admired as well, even by Auntie’s visiting friend, although I didn’t miss the way she nudged Auntie in the ribs and smothered a laugh. Still, this young woman was nearly as angelic in appearance as the child, so I held to my first opinion that she too was very nice.
But that evening, all my ideas of nice and naughty, good and bad, were thrown into a turmoil of doubt. The granny had gone to help decorate the church for the next night’s Christmas Eve Mass. The little girl, worn out from playing in the snow with cousins (and with Auntie and her friend, both as nice as is at all possible when snowballs are involved, or so the child recounted,) was sound asleep in her room downstairs. The two young women, quite likely also worn out from outdoor play, were sprawled on Auntie’s big bed.
I can only see a very little of a room while I am inside the wooden clock, but I can hear, and all seemed calm. They chatted in low voices that grew lower still, but as the hour of ten o’clock neared they seemed to be rested enough for some sort of indoor play. The bedsprings creaked. If they had been boys, I would have guessed they were wrestling; but perhaps, these days, girls play at wrestling, as well. Times do change.
On the hour, I sprang forth with my “cuckoos,” and only with the most strict control did I keep from stuttering before even five of my ten calls had sounded. They were wrestling indeed, and with no clothes on! Auntie glared up at me, snatched a dirty sock from beside the bed, and hurled it upward and over me so that I could see no more, though I could hear her friend laughing so hard the bedsprings creaked even more loudly. The worst part was that the sock wedged around me when it was time to retreat into the clock, which stopped the clockworks from working properly, and I was stuck half in and half out.
“Poor bird!” the friend said, still laughing.
“It was watching me with those beady little eyes!” Auntie said. “And mocking me with those silly noises!”
So she goes firmly onto the naughty list! I thought. “Silly noises,” indeed! And the noises the pair of them went on to make, after a short pause, went so far beyond silly as to sound downright frightening. Auntie in particular seemed to be doing something quite violent to her friend, who was gasping out sounds without words that I thought must be cries of pain. If only my woodcarver maker had thought to supply me with some sort of siren or other means to summon the constabulary! I could do nothing, wedged into my little doorway by a sock that had clearly been sweated into copiously during the day.
At last the sounds subsided into sighs and soft words. I could make out just enough, through the muffling of the dirty sock, to realize with amazement that the friend had found the whole encounter to be very nice indeed. When they began their wrestling again, this time with Auntie more on the receiving end, I rather wished, smothered as I was by the sock, that she really was in pain, but I was not surprised when she ultimately sounded most extremely satisfied with the proceedings.
Eleven o’clock came and went, and twelve, with no assistance from me or the stopped clock. I judged it to be about seven in the morning when the bedroom door creaked open. I heard the little girl gasp, and something grated across the floor, and then small fingers reached up to tug away the sock. I saw that she was standing on a chair she’d dragged over in order to reach high enough.
“Auntie, why is there an old smelly sock on the little bird?” Her voice echoed all the scolding tones she’d ever been subjected to.
Auntie, with the coverlet pulled up to her chin and her friend muffling laughter under the pillow, tried to sound soothing. “Sweetie, his sounds kept waking me up, every hour. A bedroom is really not the right place for a cuckoo clock. And besides, don’t you think he’d like to see the Christmas tree in the parlor, and all the candles, and the gifts when we open them on Christmas morning? Let’s move him out there. He can hang on the nail where that picture of a wild stag hangs now, and I’ll bring that one in here.”
The child agreed, but still cast an accusing look over her shoulder as she left the room, and could be heard tattling to her granny about the dirty sock Auntie had put on the cuckoo bird.
“Do you think,” the friend said, “that you’d rather have a big-eyed stag watching you than a little bird?” And her shoulders shook with laughter until the bed creaked again, but only a little.
So that is how I came to be waiting for Santa in the parlor while the red coals in the fireplace reflected off the sparkly ornaments on the tree, especially the colorful foil-wrapped Szaloncukor. “So, my little friend,” he said when at last he arrived. “Have you anything to tell me about the people in this house?”
I struggled to speak, but my tiny mouth, such as it is, was full. Santa peered closer. “What have they done to you? This doesn’t look good!” With a flick of a finger and a twist of his hand, he had me cleared of obstruction, and the clock running just as it ought to. “Now tell me, just how naughty have these folks been?”
“It is…well, it is so hard to say! The crumbs in my beak and inside the clock are explained innocently enough. The little girl didn’t know any better. She thought I deserved a treat, after the way her Auntie had treated me, so she crept in here after everyone was in bed, and tried to feed me a bit of poppyseed cookie. She had seen her Auntie feed seeds to the birds in the yard in cold weather, and thought that I would like them too.”
“So what did this Auntie who is kind to birds do so unkindly to you?”
I told him, in general, but added, “I did seem to be intruding on a most intimate occasion, so perhaps she could be excused. Not but what there was certainly a high degree of naughtiness going on, seen from one viewpoint, but for those involved it was clearly very nice indeed.” I twitched on my perch, which is as close to shaking the head as a wooden cuckoo bird can manage. “Santa, I try to do my best, but this world is so far from the one I remember! There is no telling now what is naughty or nice!”
“Just tell me this,” Santa said. “Are they kind to each other, more often than unkind?”
“Oh yes. I think they all truly love each other.”
“Well then,” he said, “that is all we know on earth, and all we need to know.” He spun around once, with amazing grace considering his portly bulk, and a stack of gifts appeared beneath the glittering tree.
It was midnight, as it is always midnight where Santa is delivering gifts. I rode my perch out into the room and began my song, while Santa departed for his next destination, but even over my aria of a dozen “cuckoos” I heard him exclaim, “Merry Christmas to all, and welcome to the twenty-first century!”
_________________
No on H8
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Wild Girls Review, and Free Book Offer
Here’s an excerpt from a great review of Wild Girls, Wild Nights, and a link to the rest:
“Sacchi Green has gathered together stories that blow my mind. Peeking into a world that’s often thought of as taboo, I found myself longing for more. Each story is full of real life passion. Not something that’s thought up in the fantasies of another. The women who share are sharing their most intimate and devious encounters are strong, courageous and have a burning desire to tell the restrained details of their sex lives.”
http://kinketc.com/2013/11/real-life-lesbian-sex-stories-wild-girls-wild-nights/
And here’s a chance to win a copy for yourself from Cleis Press in return for your willingness to write your own honest review:
https://www.facebook.com/CleisPress?hc_location=timeline
Besides being true stories, these are truly well-written stories, and I've never felt more proud of the writers who honor me with their work.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
On Fire--Alison Tyler’s Dark Secret Love
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Another Free Bonus Lesbian Cop Story
This one is in my anthology Lesbian Cops. The previous bonus story here, "Healing," started out as a prequel to this one, but the characters really didn't turn out to be the same.
Riding the Rails
Sacchi Green
"Hey, Jo! Josie Benoit!"
That voice from my past went all too well with the Springfield Amtrak station, visible through foggy windows and blowing snow. I’d gone to college not far from here, and so had the voice’s owner.
“If it isn’t Miss Theresa,” I grunted, and kept on tugging at the sheepskin jacket caught behind a suitcase on the overhead rack.
“I never forget an ass,” Terry said pointedly, casing mine as I reached upward.
“Sure as hell wouldn’t have known yours.” My jacket finally yielded. I tossed it across the voluptuous décolletage of my seated companion.
A few minutes earlier Yasmin had been whining about being cold. Now, of course, for a new audience, she shrugged off the covering with an enthusiasm that threatened to shrug off her low-cut silk blouse as well. Not that it had been doing much to veil her pouting nipples.
Terry, brushing snow off her shoulders and shaking it from her hair, rightly accepted my remark as a compliment. Fourteen years ago she’d been on the lumpy side; now she was buff, and all style. Sandy hair lightened, cropped, waxed just right; multiple piercings on the left ear and eyebrow, giving her face a rakish slant; studded black leather cut to make the most of the work she’d done on her body.
I’d have felt mundane, with my straight black hair twisted up into a utilitarian knot and my brown uniform not ironed all that well since my last girlfriend had taken off, if I ever gave a damn about appearances. Which might have had something to do with why she took off. Which had a whole lot to do with why I hadn’t got laid in two months and wasn’t finding it easy to resist Yasmin’s efforts.
“You just get on?” Terry asked. “Didn’t see you in the station. No way could I have overlooked your little friend.” Her eyes raked Yasmin, who practically squirmed with delight.
“Been on since White River Junction,” I said shortly. It was more than clear that Terry expected an introduction. “Yasmin, Terry OBrian. We were in college together. Terry, Princess Yasmin, fourth wife of the Sultan of Isbani.” It was some satisfaction to see Terry’s jaw drop for an instant before her suave butch façade resurfaced.
“Ooh, Terry!” Yasmin warbled, jiggling provocatively. “I didn’t know Sergeant Jo had such nice friends!”
“The princess somehow…missed…leaving New Hampshire with her husband’s entourage,” I said. “They’d been visiting her stepson at Dartmouth. I’m escorting her to D.C. to rejoin them.” As far as I could tell, it had been a combination of Yasmin’s laziness and the head wife’s hatred that had culminated in her missing the limo caravan, and her absence going unnoticed until too late. I was developing a good deal os sympathy for the head wife.
“The weather’s too risky for flying or driving,” I added, “but the train should make it through. Not supposed to be much snow south of Hartford.”
“Well, now,” Terry said, sliding into the seat facing Yasmin, “I’ll be happy to share security duty as far as New York.”
“Don’t get too happy.” I sat down beside my charge. There were suddenly more limbs between us than could comfortably fit. I tried to let my long legs stretch into the aisle, but that tilted my ass too close to Yasmin, who wriggled appreciatively against my holster. I straightened up. “This is official business. The last thing I need is an international incident.”
Why the hell hadn’t I told Terry to fuck off in the first place? Did I hope she’d distract Yasmin enough to take off some of the pressure? The tension had been building all morning. Even the subtle, insistent rhythm of the train had been driving me toward the edge. Or maybe it was just that the little bitch was too damned good at the game, and too clearly driven by spite. I don’t have to like a tease to call her on it, and if I hadn’t been on the job I’d have given Yasmin more than she knew she ws asking for. If it left my conscience a bit scuffed, what the hell; other parts of me would have earned a fine, lingering glow.
But I was on duty. She was doubly untouchable, and knew it. Seven more hours of this was going to be a particularly interesting version of Hell.
“Keep it professional, Jo,” Lieutenant Willey had said. “This one’s a real handful.”
I’d noticed. Several handfuls, in fact, in all the right places, with all the right moves. “Don’t worry. I know better than to fuck the sheep I’m herding.”
She should have slapped me down for that. Instead, she rolled her eyes toward the door. I saw, too late, that the troublesome sheep had just come in. No chance she hadn’t heard me. Anger sparked with interest sharpened her kittenish face, segueing into challenge as she looked me up and down.
“You’re off to a great start,” the lieutenant said drily. “Just bear in mind that the Sultan wants her back ‘untouched,’ and I’d just as soon not have to argue the semantics of that with the State Department.” Something in her usually impassive expression made me wonder whether our charge had come on to her. If so, I was sure sorry I’d missed it.
By the time the train crossed from Vermont into Massachusetts, I realized that Yasmin would come on to any available pair of trousers, no matter what filled them. Even the professionally affable conductor got flustered when she rubbed up against him in passing, and she had a threesome of college boys so interested that I’d made the mistake of laying a proprietary arm across her shoulders and shooting them my best dyke cop look as I yanked her back to our seats. The look worked fine, but it encouraged Yasmin to renew her attack on me.
“Ow!” she yelped when I tightened my grip on a hand that kept going where it had no business. “Why you are so mean to Yasmin?” Her coquettish pout left me cold, but a definite heat was building where her hand had trailed over my ass and nudged between my thighs. She knew I wasn’t impervious.
”Let’s just stick to getting you back to your husband,” I said neutrally, aware of the continuing interest of the college kids three seats back. The less drama here, the better.
Terry’s company, whatever the complications, might be better than being alone with Yasmin. Unless my competitive instincts reared up and made it all exponentially worse.
Terry could have been reading my mind. “Gee, Jo,” she said, “remember the last time you introduced me to one of your little friends?” Her grin was demonic.
"How could I forget? You healed up pretty well, though." I stared pointedly at the scar running up under her pierced eyebrow.
"Nothing like a duelling scar to intrigue the ladies," Terry said cheerfully. "You seem to have found a good dentist."
"You bet." I flashed what one girlfriend used to call my alpha wolf grin.
Yasmin was practically frothing with excitement, jiggling her assets and leaning toward Terry to offer an in-depth view of her cleavage and a whiff of her insistently sensuous perfume. When she balanced this position with a far-from-accidental hand high on my thigh I realized that all I'd done was set her up to try to play us off against each other.
"So, Terry," I said, firmly removing the fingers trying to make their way toward my treacherously responsive crotch. "What are you up to these days? Still living in the area?"
"I'm a paralegal in Northampton," she said. "Going to law school nights." Her gaze lingered on my badge, and for a rare instant I was hyper-conscious of the breast under it. "Funny how we both got onto the straight side of the law."
"No kidding," I said. "I’d heard that anything goes in Hamp these days, but can you go to court rigged out like that?"
"I could, but I don't." I was pleasantly surprised to see a bit of a flush rise from her neck to her jawline. "I'm on my way to New York to do some readings at a bookstore in the East Village. And a bit of…socializing…afterward."
"You're a writer?" My surprise was hardly flattering, and her jaw tightened, even as the flush extended all the way to her hairline.
"On the side, yeah," she said brusquely. "Doesn't pay much, but the fringe benefits can be outstanding."
"Hey, if the stories match the get-up, I'll bet they are! Erotica groupies, huh?"
Terry caught the new respect in my voice, and relaxed. She let her legs splay apart. I'd already noticed she was packing; now Yasmin stared at the huge bulge stretching the black leather pants along the right thigh, and her kewpie-doll mouth formed an awe-struck "O."
"Loaded for bear, aren't you," I said. "Ah, the literary life. I'll have to check out some of your stuff, maybe get you to autograph a book for me." I was more than half serious. She started to grin, and then an odd, startled look swept over her face. I glanced down and saw Yasmin's stockinged foot nudging against the straining black leather.
It wasn't a big enough deal to account for my first, raging impulse to break her leg. I managed to suppress it, but by then everything seemed to be happening in slow motion except the throbbing in my crotch. Terry's presence was definitely making things worse. Much worse.
Yasmin pulled her silk skirt up so we could get the full benefit of the shapely leg extended between the seats and the toes caressing the leather-sheathed cock. Then she applied enough force that Terry caught her breath, and automatically shifted her hips to get the most benefit, and I felt the pressure as though it were prodding against my own clit. But all I was packing was a gun, and that was on my hip.
I know from experience that you don't get the optimum angle the way Yasmin was working. But you can get damned close. My girlfriend used to tease me like that in restaurants, her leg up under the table, her foot in my lap, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she watched me struggle not to make the kind of sounds you can't make in public. She knew I wouldn't let myself come because I just can't manage it without a whole lot of noise.
The train wasn't crowded, but it was public. Terry's head was thrown back, her eyes glazing over, her hands gripping the seat hard. I was afraid my own breathing was even louder than hers; I was damned sure my cunt was just as hot and wet. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I'd do serious damage.
Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. She fondled her own breasts, and her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry's equipment, but her focus had shifted to herself.
"God damn!" came Terry's harsh whisper. Or maybe it was mine. Then Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused cunts.
"We're coming into Hartford." Terry's strangled words sounded far away. "We'll be at the station any minute!"
Yasmin's voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my neck, echoed through my head. "Sergeant Jo doesn't have the balls to fuck a sheep!"
I snapped.
I lunged.
With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and began to shake her so hard her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirtfront and the hard edges of my badge.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.
"Damnit, Jo, cool it!" Terry gritted. "And you," she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, "you little slut, and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word, cover up or I'll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform."
I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again I'd begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.
"Thanks," I muttered. "Guess I needed that."
"What you need," Terry said deliberately, "is a good fucking. Jeezus, Jo, if you don't get it off pretty damn soon you'll have not only that international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!"
She was right, which just made things worse. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.
I pushed myself up into the aisle. "Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?"
"You can count on me," Terry said, and I had to go with it.
There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could, and leaned my pelvis against the edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.
As the door slid open a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me and the door was shut and locked again.
"Sudden attack of patriotism," Terry announced with a lupine grin. "Have to prevent that international incident. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it."
"You and who else?" I challenged.
"Just me. Our little friend is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise."
I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. "On my mother's grave!" she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, "on my sister's grave!" Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry the quirk of her brow made me realize my tacit agreement. To what, I wasn’t sure.
We sized each other up like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made feel naked. I'm used to being the hardbody in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I've never done them going backward.
She retreated a few inches. "Gonna stay in uniform?" she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt, and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.
"Civilian enough for you?"
"Hell no! The least you could do is show me your tits."
I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I'd never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn't sure yet just where I might draw the line, but I could give a little. "Fair enough." I hung shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway. "How about you?" She had left her jacket behind but still wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.
Terry was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. "Breasts like pomegranates," she said softly. "Round and high and tight. Geez, don't they have gravity in New Hampshire?"
I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening as though under an independent impulse; I could sure feel them, though. I grabbed Terry's vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up just enough to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn't push the issue of her staying dressed.
Terry pressed closer again. I leaned my mouth against her ear. "Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?"
"Yeah, well, maybe when the inspiration's right. But then I edit it out."
She eased back and looked me over again. "I don't suppose," she said, somewhat wistfully, "you could jiggle a little for me?"
"In your dreams!" We were both a little short of breath by now, both struggling with the question of who'd get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.
"In my dreams?" There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn't notice right away when she raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. "In my dreams," she murmured, just barely stroking me, "you're wearing red velvet."
I hadn't thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She'd worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria; then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off of each other. Eventually, in fact, we did. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.
Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn't quite ready for that. I did let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over the appreciative nipples. "One time only offer," I said, "for old times' sake," and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush-cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered her knee was working between my thighs and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.
"Come on," I muttered, "Show me what you've got." I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled and unzipped and rearranged her gear for action I kicked off my boots and pants.
She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a second, then grabbed hers and shoved those tight leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.
"State of the art, huh?" Eight thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not yet wet. I'd have been envious any other time. Hell, I was still envious.
"This one's mostly for show," she muttered. "Are you sure..." But it was too late not to be sure.
"I can handle it," I said. And I did handle it, working it with my fingers, making her gasp and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in a surreal co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current sweeter than electricity but as sharp. Then the slick material skidded in my wetness and slid along my folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.
Can't hurt to see how the other half lives, I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I'd was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.
She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, hungry for the pounding, aching intensity.
But needing to go after it myself. "Let me move!" I grated.
Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my attempts to swing her around, and the black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together. "What the..." Her voice was gutteral, and her eyes glittered dangerously.
We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit beefier, I was taller. She'd been working out with weights and machines, I'd been working over smartass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tie-breaker was that I needed it more.
"You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!" I had her back against the rail now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it and then began some serious action.
For an instant she flashed a grin, and muttered "Fair enough!" Then she had all she could do to hang on to the railing and meet my lunges. The train swayed and rattled, but I rode it, my legs automatically absorbing the shifts, as I rode that black cock, train to my tunnel, bound for glory. The hunger it fed and compounded got me so slippery that in spite of its size the impact and friction might not have been enough, except that my clit seemed to swell inward as well as outward, and my whole cunt clenched around the maddening pressure.
Terry's grunts turned into moans. She grabbed my hips and dug her fingers into my ass. "Steady...damnit...steady..." I slowed enough to catch her rhythm and grabbed her leather-covered ass, feeling the muscles clench and her hips start to buck. I mashed my mouth down over hers to catch the eruption of harsh groans, but she had to breathe, and anyway, it didn't matter how much noise she made. I could feel my own eruption coming, and knew there was no way I could muffle it. And didn't give a damn.
I held on until Terry's gasps subsided from wrenching to merely hard. Then I accelerated into my own demanding beat. I saw her face through a haze, and there may have been pain on it, but she didn't flinch, just kept her hips tilted at the optimum angle for me to ram myself down onto what she offered. My clit clenched like a fist, harder and harder each time I drove it onto her pubic bone. A sound like a distant train whistle seemed to come closer and closer, the reverberations penetrating into places I hadn't known I had.
Then it hit. My clit went off like a brass gong, and those waves smashed up against the explosion raging outward from my core. Sound engulfed me.
Terry held me for the hours it seemed to take for me to suck in enough breath to see straight. Finally I slouched back against the edge of the sink, letting the slippery cock emerge inch by inch. She reached past me to grab a handful of paper towels. I took them away from her and slowly, sensuously wiped away my own juices from the glistening black surface. When I aimed the used towels toward the trash container she stopped me, folded them inside a clean one, and tucked them into her waistband, avoiding my eyes. I didn't ask.
Then she looked over toward the door. I'd been vaguely aware at one point of Yasmin, one hand pulled free of the cuffs I'd fastened too carelessly, rubbing herself into a frenzy; apparently, by her look now, with some success. "So, Princess," Terry said with the old jaunty quirk of her brow, "didn't I tell you it'd be worth it just to hear her come? I could record that riff and make a bundle."
"You, Terry, are a prick," I said lazily, "and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word."
"I still get the shivers now and then," Terry went on, nominally speaking to Yasmin, "thinking of that alto sax wailing fuller and fuller. The final trumpet fanfare this time, though, was beyond anything I remember."
"Jeez, I hope you edit out that kind of crap!" I said, and turned to the sink to clean up. Then I dressed, and felt more secure with my gun belt around my hips. Not that security is everything.
The rest of the trip wasn't bad. Yasmin watched sleepily as Terry and I chatted about old times, old acquaintances, and the intervening years. Terry got off at Penn Station, offering me a book at the last minute with her card tucked into it; she grinned when I took out the card and slipped it into my breast pocket, behind the badge.
"Moving a little stiffly, aren't we," I said as I helped get her duffle down from the rack.
"Mmm, but the show must go on."
"I'm sure you won't disappoint your audience," I said, with an encouraging slap on that fine, muscular ass. "Go get 'em."
Yasmin made a few tentative advances between New York and DC, but I wasn't vulnerable anymore, and she gave up and slept for most of the trip. The welcoming party at Union Station was headed by a tall, mature woman in a well-cut dark suit. "The Princess traveled well?" she asked, with a keen, hard look at me.
"Just fine," I said, meeting her eyes frankly, "with no harm done, if you don't count a few slaps to make her keep her hands to herself."
"Excellent," she said, with the ghost of a smile. "The Sultan would be happy to offer hospitality for the night, before your return trip."
"I appreciate the offer," I said truthfully, "but I have other plans. I'm getting the next train back as far as New York. There's a literary event I don't want to miss." Terry's schedule of readings had been scrawled on the back of her card. There was a special private one at midnight. I had a notion there'd be enough erotica groupies to go around. Beyond that, I wouldn't mind meeting an editor, finding out more about the writing game. I knew damned well that Terry would use some of today's activities in her fiction. I might just beat her to it.
I've gotta edit out that "train to my tunnel, bound for glory" line, though. Too bad. That’s sure as hell exactly how it felt.
Riding the Rails
Sacchi Green
"Hey, Jo! Josie Benoit!"
That voice from my past went all too well with the Springfield Amtrak station, visible through foggy windows and blowing snow. I’d gone to college not far from here, and so had the voice’s owner.
“If it isn’t Miss Theresa,” I grunted, and kept on tugging at the sheepskin jacket caught behind a suitcase on the overhead rack.
“I never forget an ass,” Terry said pointedly, casing mine as I reached upward.
“Sure as hell wouldn’t have known yours.” My jacket finally yielded. I tossed it across the voluptuous décolletage of my seated companion.
A few minutes earlier Yasmin had been whining about being cold. Now, of course, for a new audience, she shrugged off the covering with an enthusiasm that threatened to shrug off her low-cut silk blouse as well. Not that it had been doing much to veil her pouting nipples.
Terry, brushing snow off her shoulders and shaking it from her hair, rightly accepted my remark as a compliment. Fourteen years ago she’d been on the lumpy side; now she was buff, and all style. Sandy hair lightened, cropped, waxed just right; multiple piercings on the left ear and eyebrow, giving her face a rakish slant; studded black leather cut to make the most of the work she’d done on her body.
I’d have felt mundane, with my straight black hair twisted up into a utilitarian knot and my brown uniform not ironed all that well since my last girlfriend had taken off, if I ever gave a damn about appearances. Which might have had something to do with why she took off. Which had a whole lot to do with why I hadn’t got laid in two months and wasn’t finding it easy to resist Yasmin’s efforts.
“You just get on?” Terry asked. “Didn’t see you in the station. No way could I have overlooked your little friend.” Her eyes raked Yasmin, who practically squirmed with delight.
“Been on since White River Junction,” I said shortly. It was more than clear that Terry expected an introduction. “Yasmin, Terry OBrian. We were in college together. Terry, Princess Yasmin, fourth wife of the Sultan of Isbani.” It was some satisfaction to see Terry’s jaw drop for an instant before her suave butch façade resurfaced.
“Ooh, Terry!” Yasmin warbled, jiggling provocatively. “I didn’t know Sergeant Jo had such nice friends!”
“The princess somehow…missed…leaving New Hampshire with her husband’s entourage,” I said. “They’d been visiting her stepson at Dartmouth. I’m escorting her to D.C. to rejoin them.” As far as I could tell, it had been a combination of Yasmin’s laziness and the head wife’s hatred that had culminated in her missing the limo caravan, and her absence going unnoticed until too late. I was developing a good deal os sympathy for the head wife.
“The weather’s too risky for flying or driving,” I added, “but the train should make it through. Not supposed to be much snow south of Hartford.”
“Well, now,” Terry said, sliding into the seat facing Yasmin, “I’ll be happy to share security duty as far as New York.”
“Don’t get too happy.” I sat down beside my charge. There were suddenly more limbs between us than could comfortably fit. I tried to let my long legs stretch into the aisle, but that tilted my ass too close to Yasmin, who wriggled appreciatively against my holster. I straightened up. “This is official business. The last thing I need is an international incident.”
Why the hell hadn’t I told Terry to fuck off in the first place? Did I hope she’d distract Yasmin enough to take off some of the pressure? The tension had been building all morning. Even the subtle, insistent rhythm of the train had been driving me toward the edge. Or maybe it was just that the little bitch was too damned good at the game, and too clearly driven by spite. I don’t have to like a tease to call her on it, and if I hadn’t been on the job I’d have given Yasmin more than she knew she ws asking for. If it left my conscience a bit scuffed, what the hell; other parts of me would have earned a fine, lingering glow.
But I was on duty. She was doubly untouchable, and knew it. Seven more hours of this was going to be a particularly interesting version of Hell.
“Keep it professional, Jo,” Lieutenant Willey had said. “This one’s a real handful.”
I’d noticed. Several handfuls, in fact, in all the right places, with all the right moves. “Don’t worry. I know better than to fuck the sheep I’m herding.”
She should have slapped me down for that. Instead, she rolled her eyes toward the door. I saw, too late, that the troublesome sheep had just come in. No chance she hadn’t heard me. Anger sparked with interest sharpened her kittenish face, segueing into challenge as she looked me up and down.
“You’re off to a great start,” the lieutenant said drily. “Just bear in mind that the Sultan wants her back ‘untouched,’ and I’d just as soon not have to argue the semantics of that with the State Department.” Something in her usually impassive expression made me wonder whether our charge had come on to her. If so, I was sure sorry I’d missed it.
By the time the train crossed from Vermont into Massachusetts, I realized that Yasmin would come on to any available pair of trousers, no matter what filled them. Even the professionally affable conductor got flustered when she rubbed up against him in passing, and she had a threesome of college boys so interested that I’d made the mistake of laying a proprietary arm across her shoulders and shooting them my best dyke cop look as I yanked her back to our seats. The look worked fine, but it encouraged Yasmin to renew her attack on me.
“Ow!” she yelped when I tightened my grip on a hand that kept going where it had no business. “Why you are so mean to Yasmin?” Her coquettish pout left me cold, but a definite heat was building where her hand had trailed over my ass and nudged between my thighs. She knew I wasn’t impervious.
”Let’s just stick to getting you back to your husband,” I said neutrally, aware of the continuing interest of the college kids three seats back. The less drama here, the better.
Terry’s company, whatever the complications, might be better than being alone with Yasmin. Unless my competitive instincts reared up and made it all exponentially worse.
Terry could have been reading my mind. “Gee, Jo,” she said, “remember the last time you introduced me to one of your little friends?” Her grin was demonic.
"How could I forget? You healed up pretty well, though." I stared pointedly at the scar running up under her pierced eyebrow.
"Nothing like a duelling scar to intrigue the ladies," Terry said cheerfully. "You seem to have found a good dentist."
"You bet." I flashed what one girlfriend used to call my alpha wolf grin.
Yasmin was practically frothing with excitement, jiggling her assets and leaning toward Terry to offer an in-depth view of her cleavage and a whiff of her insistently sensuous perfume. When she balanced this position with a far-from-accidental hand high on my thigh I realized that all I'd done was set her up to try to play us off against each other.
"So, Terry," I said, firmly removing the fingers trying to make their way toward my treacherously responsive crotch. "What are you up to these days? Still living in the area?"
"I'm a paralegal in Northampton," she said. "Going to law school nights." Her gaze lingered on my badge, and for a rare instant I was hyper-conscious of the breast under it. "Funny how we both got onto the straight side of the law."
"No kidding," I said. "I’d heard that anything goes in Hamp these days, but can you go to court rigged out like that?"
"I could, but I don't." I was pleasantly surprised to see a bit of a flush rise from her neck to her jawline. "I'm on my way to New York to do some readings at a bookstore in the East Village. And a bit of…socializing…afterward."
"You're a writer?" My surprise was hardly flattering, and her jaw tightened, even as the flush extended all the way to her hairline.
"On the side, yeah," she said brusquely. "Doesn't pay much, but the fringe benefits can be outstanding."
"Hey, if the stories match the get-up, I'll bet they are! Erotica groupies, huh?"
Terry caught the new respect in my voice, and relaxed. She let her legs splay apart. I'd already noticed she was packing; now Yasmin stared at the huge bulge stretching the black leather pants along the right thigh, and her kewpie-doll mouth formed an awe-struck "O."
"Loaded for bear, aren't you," I said. "Ah, the literary life. I'll have to check out some of your stuff, maybe get you to autograph a book for me." I was more than half serious. She started to grin, and then an odd, startled look swept over her face. I glanced down and saw Yasmin's stockinged foot nudging against the straining black leather.
It wasn't a big enough deal to account for my first, raging impulse to break her leg. I managed to suppress it, but by then everything seemed to be happening in slow motion except the throbbing in my crotch. Terry's presence was definitely making things worse. Much worse.
Yasmin pulled her silk skirt up so we could get the full benefit of the shapely leg extended between the seats and the toes caressing the leather-sheathed cock. Then she applied enough force that Terry caught her breath, and automatically shifted her hips to get the most benefit, and I felt the pressure as though it were prodding against my own clit. But all I was packing was a gun, and that was on my hip.
I know from experience that you don't get the optimum angle the way Yasmin was working. But you can get damned close. My girlfriend used to tease me like that in restaurants, her leg up under the table, her foot in my lap, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she watched me struggle not to make the kind of sounds you can't make in public. She knew I wouldn't let myself come because I just can't manage it without a whole lot of noise.
The train wasn't crowded, but it was public. Terry's head was thrown back, her eyes glazing over, her hands gripping the seat hard. I was afraid my own breathing was even louder than hers; I was damned sure my cunt was just as hot and wet. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I'd do serious damage.
Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. She fondled her own breasts, and her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry's equipment, but her focus had shifted to herself.
"God damn!" came Terry's harsh whisper. Or maybe it was mine. Then Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused cunts.
"We're coming into Hartford." Terry's strangled words sounded far away. "We'll be at the station any minute!"
Yasmin's voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my neck, echoed through my head. "Sergeant Jo doesn't have the balls to fuck a sheep!"
I snapped.
I lunged.
With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and began to shake her so hard her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirtfront and the hard edges of my badge.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.
"Damnit, Jo, cool it!" Terry gritted. "And you," she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, "you little slut, and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word, cover up or I'll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform."
I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again I'd begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.
"Thanks," I muttered. "Guess I needed that."
"What you need," Terry said deliberately, "is a good fucking. Jeezus, Jo, if you don't get it off pretty damn soon you'll have not only that international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!"
She was right, which just made things worse. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.
I pushed myself up into the aisle. "Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?"
"You can count on me," Terry said, and I had to go with it.
There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could, and leaned my pelvis against the edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.
As the door slid open a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me and the door was shut and locked again.
"Sudden attack of patriotism," Terry announced with a lupine grin. "Have to prevent that international incident. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it."
"You and who else?" I challenged.
"Just me. Our little friend is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise."
I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. "On my mother's grave!" she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, "on my sister's grave!" Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry the quirk of her brow made me realize my tacit agreement. To what, I wasn’t sure.
We sized each other up like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made feel naked. I'm used to being the hardbody in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I've never done them going backward.
She retreated a few inches. "Gonna stay in uniform?" she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt, and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.
"Civilian enough for you?"
"Hell no! The least you could do is show me your tits."
I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I'd never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn't sure yet just where I might draw the line, but I could give a little. "Fair enough." I hung shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway. "How about you?" She had left her jacket behind but still wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.
Terry was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. "Breasts like pomegranates," she said softly. "Round and high and tight. Geez, don't they have gravity in New Hampshire?"
I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening as though under an independent impulse; I could sure feel them, though. I grabbed Terry's vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up just enough to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn't push the issue of her staying dressed.
Terry pressed closer again. I leaned my mouth against her ear. "Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?"
"Yeah, well, maybe when the inspiration's right. But then I edit it out."
She eased back and looked me over again. "I don't suppose," she said, somewhat wistfully, "you could jiggle a little for me?"
"In your dreams!" We were both a little short of breath by now, both struggling with the question of who'd get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.
"In my dreams?" There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn't notice right away when she raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. "In my dreams," she murmured, just barely stroking me, "you're wearing red velvet."
I hadn't thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She'd worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria; then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off of each other. Eventually, in fact, we did. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.
Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn't quite ready for that. I did let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over the appreciative nipples. "One time only offer," I said, "for old times' sake," and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush-cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered her knee was working between my thighs and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.
"Come on," I muttered, "Show me what you've got." I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled and unzipped and rearranged her gear for action I kicked off my boots and pants.
She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a second, then grabbed hers and shoved those tight leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.
"State of the art, huh?" Eight thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not yet wet. I'd have been envious any other time. Hell, I was still envious.
"This one's mostly for show," she muttered. "Are you sure..." But it was too late not to be sure.
"I can handle it," I said. And I did handle it, working it with my fingers, making her gasp and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in a surreal co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current sweeter than electricity but as sharp. Then the slick material skidded in my wetness and slid along my folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.
Can't hurt to see how the other half lives, I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I'd was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.
She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, hungry for the pounding, aching intensity.
But needing to go after it myself. "Let me move!" I grated.
Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my attempts to swing her around, and the black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together. "What the..." Her voice was gutteral, and her eyes glittered dangerously.
We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit beefier, I was taller. She'd been working out with weights and machines, I'd been working over smartass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tie-breaker was that I needed it more.
"You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!" I had her back against the rail now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it and then began some serious action.
For an instant she flashed a grin, and muttered "Fair enough!" Then she had all she could do to hang on to the railing and meet my lunges. The train swayed and rattled, but I rode it, my legs automatically absorbing the shifts, as I rode that black cock, train to my tunnel, bound for glory. The hunger it fed and compounded got me so slippery that in spite of its size the impact and friction might not have been enough, except that my clit seemed to swell inward as well as outward, and my whole cunt clenched around the maddening pressure.
Terry's grunts turned into moans. She grabbed my hips and dug her fingers into my ass. "Steady...damnit...steady..." I slowed enough to catch her rhythm and grabbed her leather-covered ass, feeling the muscles clench and her hips start to buck. I mashed my mouth down over hers to catch the eruption of harsh groans, but she had to breathe, and anyway, it didn't matter how much noise she made. I could feel my own eruption coming, and knew there was no way I could muffle it. And didn't give a damn.
I held on until Terry's gasps subsided from wrenching to merely hard. Then I accelerated into my own demanding beat. I saw her face through a haze, and there may have been pain on it, but she didn't flinch, just kept her hips tilted at the optimum angle for me to ram myself down onto what she offered. My clit clenched like a fist, harder and harder each time I drove it onto her pubic bone. A sound like a distant train whistle seemed to come closer and closer, the reverberations penetrating into places I hadn't known I had.
Then it hit. My clit went off like a brass gong, and those waves smashed up against the explosion raging outward from my core. Sound engulfed me.
Terry held me for the hours it seemed to take for me to suck in enough breath to see straight. Finally I slouched back against the edge of the sink, letting the slippery cock emerge inch by inch. She reached past me to grab a handful of paper towels. I took them away from her and slowly, sensuously wiped away my own juices from the glistening black surface. When I aimed the used towels toward the trash container she stopped me, folded them inside a clean one, and tucked them into her waistband, avoiding my eyes. I didn't ask.
Then she looked over toward the door. I'd been vaguely aware at one point of Yasmin, one hand pulled free of the cuffs I'd fastened too carelessly, rubbing herself into a frenzy; apparently, by her look now, with some success. "So, Princess," Terry said with the old jaunty quirk of her brow, "didn't I tell you it'd be worth it just to hear her come? I could record that riff and make a bundle."
"You, Terry, are a prick," I said lazily, "and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word."
"I still get the shivers now and then," Terry went on, nominally speaking to Yasmin, "thinking of that alto sax wailing fuller and fuller. The final trumpet fanfare this time, though, was beyond anything I remember."
"Jeez, I hope you edit out that kind of crap!" I said, and turned to the sink to clean up. Then I dressed, and felt more secure with my gun belt around my hips. Not that security is everything.
The rest of the trip wasn't bad. Yasmin watched sleepily as Terry and I chatted about old times, old acquaintances, and the intervening years. Terry got off at Penn Station, offering me a book at the last minute with her card tucked into it; she grinned when I took out the card and slipped it into my breast pocket, behind the badge.
"Moving a little stiffly, aren't we," I said as I helped get her duffle down from the rack.
"Mmm, but the show must go on."
"I'm sure you won't disappoint your audience," I said, with an encouraging slap on that fine, muscular ass. "Go get 'em."
Yasmin made a few tentative advances between New York and DC, but I wasn't vulnerable anymore, and she gave up and slept for most of the trip. The welcoming party at Union Station was headed by a tall, mature woman in a well-cut dark suit. "The Princess traveled well?" she asked, with a keen, hard look at me.
"Just fine," I said, meeting her eyes frankly, "with no harm done, if you don't count a few slaps to make her keep her hands to herself."
"Excellent," she said, with the ghost of a smile. "The Sultan would be happy to offer hospitality for the night, before your return trip."
"I appreciate the offer," I said truthfully, "but I have other plans. I'm getting the next train back as far as New York. There's a literary event I don't want to miss." Terry's schedule of readings had been scrawled on the back of her card. There was a special private one at midnight. I had a notion there'd be enough erotica groupies to go around. Beyond that, I wouldn't mind meeting an editor, finding out more about the writing game. I knew damned well that Terry would use some of today's activities in her fiction. I might just beat her to it.
I've gotta edit out that "train to my tunnel, bound for glory" line, though. Too bad. That’s sure as hell exactly how it felt.
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