FF: Wrong Side of the Tracks

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The idea for this flash fiction piece spawned from a photo I discovered on Pinterest, originally featured on Vogue Italia. I can’t reblog it for copyright reasons, but you can view it here (SFW).

I decided to try for something a bit more sensual this time, perhaps even subtle. As always, feedback is encouraged and greatly appreciated.

Enjoy ♥


He adjusts his tie, tightening and then smoothing it into the collar of his brown corduroy blazer. Delivery trucks and early commuters rumble overhead just as the sun’s first rays illuminate the iridescent swirls of grease along the river’s edge. He scratches at the coating of scruff upon his jaw, wondering if he should’ve shaved for the occasion. Jagged stones threaten to punch holes into the soles of his scuffed loafers. He checks his watch.

She’s late.

The sun reaches higher, reflecting off the train tracks that run beneath the bridge’s metal and concrete foundation. He folds his arms, compressing the package that lies tucked within the inner breast pocket of his blazer.

A car horn blares, drawing his attention to the bustling city above. Pedestrians and bicyclists have joined the fray. Scurrying off to their day jobs, they are oblivious to those who would conduct their business in the dark.

The crunch of rubber soles against loose rock jerks him back down to the depths of the bottom-dwellers. She approaches from the south, hair clipped high, wearing a taupe, knee-length trench coat, gathered at the waist with a silver buckle. Her tall, heeled boots are a poor match for the uneven terrain, and she wobbles slightly, holding tight to the briefcase in her hand.

She glances over her shoulder, then to either side, before coming to stand before him—near enough to reach out and touch palms, but not so close that she could not flee if provoked. He extends his hand.

“You’re late,” he says.

She clasps his palm and quickly withdraws. “I was detained.”

“By whom?”

“Who do you think?”

He smirks and gestures to the briefcase. “Is that all of it?”

“Most of it.”

His eyes narrow. “You know I don’t do charity.”

“You’ll get the rest once I’ve determined that your client’s work is adequate.”

He unbuttons his blazer and reaches for the breast pocket. His gaze roves over her shapely form, lingering on the hint of cleavage at the meeting of her lapels. She shifts her weight, skimming an errant curl behind her ear. His fingers brush the parcel. He pauses.

“Perhaps we should move somewhere less conspicuous,” he says.

“Such as?”

He nods towards the underside of the bridge. She cocks an eyebrow.

“Do you want it or not?”

She sighs. “Fine.”

They follow the tracks beneath the steel and stone edifice, circumventing the empty bottles, crumpled food wrappers, and plastic bags.

“So,” he says. “How’s life at the top treating you?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Bet you wrinkled your nose when I suggested we meet down here.”

“I did no such thing.”

He chuckles. “Right. I’m sure you’re just as comfy by the river as you are at one of those swanky fundraisers.”

“I adapt to my surroundings. Always have.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, how much does that husband of yours make a year? Forty? Fifty mil?”

“Haven’t asked.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it wasn’t too much of a hardship for you to ‘adapt’ to his lifestyle.”

She halts. “I haven’t forgotten who I am. Or where I come from.”

“Sure. That’s why you thought it would be a good idea to wear those shoes down here, yeah?”

“I’m keeping up, aren’t I?” She scowls.

“That you are.” He tugs at one of the loose threads upon his sleeve.

He leads them to a shadowy spot about halfway through the tunnel. Spray-painted exhibitions ornament the concrete walls, splashes of color eclipsing cold, industrial gray.

He turns to face her, a sly smile playing at his lips. “See? Much better.”

“Right.” She kicks a discarded soda can and sends it rattling.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “You know, on second thought, I think the price just doubled.”

“Did it?” She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re going to have to adjust your offer.”

She folds her arms, squeezing her breasts together. “I don’t have time for this.”

He steps toward her and she retreats until her back is flush with the concrete. Her arms drop. His hot breath washes over her as his fingers entwine with hers about the handle of the briefcase.

She swallows. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Her breath hitches as he captures her jaw, tracing her lips with his thumb.

“Because?” He slips the briefcase from her as their mouths collide.

She squirms as he moves closer, his chest pressed tight against hers. He tosses the case, bringing both palms to her cheeks. Whining into his mouth, she wedges her hands between them and shoves him back.

“No,” she whispers. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again.”

He strokes her face with one finger, starting at her temple and ending at her mouth. Pushing past her lips, he sides his fingertip over her tongue. She suckles him, her cheeks flushed. He unfastens her hair clip, letting the soft waves cascade onto her shoulders.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

She closes her eyes. He slides his free hand between their bodies, locating the silver belt buckle. The slippery material of the trench coat gives easily. He sweeps the front flaps aside, revealing a wine-colored bustier and matching panties—and not much else.

“God, you’re still gorgeous.” He slips his finger from her mouth.

“Kiss me,” she commands, breathless.

The beams on the underside of the bridge quake and groan. His lips reclaim hers as his hands slip inside the trench coat to caress her waist and belly. She unknots his tie with expert fingers, leaving it slack about his neck. Fervently, she unbuttons his navy blue shirt, revealing his well-defined chest; her greedy hands coveting every inch. He positions himself between her legs.

“Fuck me.” She bites his lip.

Her words bolster him. He scrunches the cups of her bra below her breasts. Palming them, he torments her nipples, eliciting soft cries and slight tremors. She writhes. His lips and tongue descend to her collarbone and beyond, trailing kisses along her smooth skin. She glides her hand over his groin, massaging him through the fabric of his pants. He moans, sinking his teeth into her breast.

“We don’t have much time,” she whispers.

He grunts.

His tongue flutters over her nipple. She unzips his fly and reaches in, fumbling past the layer of boxer-briefs. He groans as she encircles his erection.

“I need to taste you first,” he says.

She relinquishes him and he drops to his knees. Nose and mouth pressed to the lace-covered cleft between her thighs, he inhales. She combs her fingers through his hair, her lips reddened and pouted—above, as well as below. He hooks his finger into the crotch of her underwear and tugs them aside, revealing her slick folds.

“He makes you wax?” he asks.

“No one makes me do anything.”

He grins. She cries out as his tongue glides over her, warm and wet. He wraps his hand around her knee and raises it to rest upon his shoulder. Balancing her weight on one leg, she leans back against the concrete, eyes locked on his enraptured face. His tongue snakes its way between her enflamed lips, tasting her and locating the tiny, sensitive bud that he knows will be her undoing.

She squeals at the joint torment of his stubble upon her bare sex and the gentle caresses of his mouth. He probes harder and deeper, causing her legs to tremble.

“Please,” she says, her voice raspy.

Drawing his tongue along her slit one final time, he lowers her leg and rises to his feet. He kisses her, letting her taste herself upon his lips. She slips her hand into the front of his pants. His breathing is short, ragged. She guides his erection out into the open, milking his length. He thrusts into her palm, his fingers etched into the fat of her hips.

“Turn around,” he growls.

She spins, placing both hands flat upon the concrete. He heaves the trench coat aside and positions himself behind her. With one, firm thrust, he is buried to the hilt. She cries out; her muscles clenching. He plunges into her, his pelvis slapping her bottom. Tension builds as they climb towards their peak, her balancing on shaky legs and him doing his best not to pound her into the concrete.

He brushes her hair to one side and plants his mouth upon her neck, licking and sucking. His teeth capture a swath, cutting deep enough to bruise.

“Don’t.” She whimpers. “He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

His arms coil about her torso. “I’ll kill him if he tries.”

He bites her again. She shrieks, her muscles tightening and releasing around him. He slows his thrusts to prolong her orgasm, sliding his palms back to her hips. Her whole body trembles as she struggles to remain upright. Soon he is overtaken by his own needs; the impulse to drive, to push, to thrust as deep as he possibly can. Mouth clamped to throat, hands fixed to hips, he spills into her, pressing her front body against the stone as he waits for the pulsing to slow, to cease.

They pant. He withdraws and guides her back from the wall, embracing her. She sighs, entwining her fingers with his.

“Wow,” she says.

He chuckles. “I know.”

She rotates in his arms, sliding her hands into his shirt and pressing her cheek to his collarbone. He kisses her temple.

“What time is it?” she asks.

He glances at his watch. “7:15”

“We really should get going.”

They readjust their clothing, sniggering over the unavoidable stains and wrinkles.

He fumbles with his tie. “I can never figure these damn things out.”

“Here,” she says. “Let me.” She executes a perfect Windsor knot.

He picks up the briefcase and dusts it off. “So, same time next week?”

“I think that’ll work.” She picks a stray hair from his collar. “But this time, I get to pick the place.”

“Too grungy?” He laughs.

“Not at all.” She smiles. “I just like variety.”

He kisses her cheek. “Next time, I’ll give you a head’s up about the footwear.”

They laugh. She hooks her palm around his arm as they make their way towards the daylight.

“God,” she says. “I feel so damn exposed in this outfit.”

“I bet your husband likes it, though.” He wiggles his brows.

Her mouth curls into a sly smile. She squeezes his forearm. “He likes it very much.”

15 thoughts on “FF: Wrong Side of the Tracks

  1. Reblogged this on Lace Winter and commented:
    Rachel is the Mistress of erotic and sensual flash fiction, coming up with well-drawn and fascinating characters and imbuing them with life while putting them in some steamy situations. Here she plays a little mind game with us… or are her characters playing mind games with each other? Either way, take a little trip over to the wrong side of the tracks with Rachel Woe…

    Like

    1. Thank you so much. 🙂 I really struggled with trying to keep the dialogue from sounding too scripted and cheesy, while also keeping in mind that these people are, indeed, role playing. So glad you enjoyed it!!

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you 🙂 I was testing myself to see if I could write a sexy encounter without using a lot of explicit language (and you know how much I love those C-words). The dialogue feels a tad stiff and predictable to me in some spots, but considering what’s actually happening, I thought it made sense. So glad you liked it!!

      Liked by 1 person

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