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.

Continue reading “FF: Wrong Side of the Tracks”

Body Language

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Those words, not mine, I covet

These hands, not yours, I feign

If twain should e’er meet and trade places

They’d parley a language, profane

Musk

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You slink through the doorway, soaked

smelling of sweat and dog and river

Sleeping under stars

turns men into boys

Yet, you return to me

Animal

 

I’m gross, you say

I unzip my dress and let it crumple

onto the hardwood

I want gross

 

I want matted fur on brackish skin

and soil-caked claws

Stained feet and detritus stench

10:00 shadow and haven’t showered

in days, unless you count

the rain, the falls, the river

 

Tangled hair and wrinkled shorts

yanked off in fervor, frenzied mouths

and teeth and glands—

Rediscover these here lands

 

Haven’t seen a woman in days?

Well, honey, come

and let me show you

what Mother Nature can do

with these two hands

Incompatible

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I said, “I’ve always wanted someone

to rip my panties off during sex.”

He said, “That seems like it would be

harder than it sounds.”

I said, “Right,” and pretended to sleep

the next morning

while he packed his things

and left town.

Flash Fiction: En Route (Part 2)

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Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Here we have the conclusion to last week’s erotic subway flash fiction story. If you haven’t read part 1, or, if you’d like to reacquaint yourself with the story and characters, click here.

Otherwise, enjoy!


Leila’s handsome new friend trailed feather-light strokes along her outer thighs and up into the hem of her dress. She swallowed. Her cheeks burned and she prayed that no one would notice the sweat beading at her hairline and on her upper lip.

He caressed her, kneading her with his fingers. Leila closed her eyes, savoring the illicit contact and wishing that they were alone instead of crammed like sardines into a train car with a bunch of strangers.

Then again, he was technically a stranger. She buried the thought.

The man teased the backs of her thighs with his knuckles before sliding his thumbs to the interior of her legs. She inhaled sharply; her eyes snapping open. He skimmed his palms upward, pausing just below the crotch of her panties.

She bit her top lip and held it.

“Excuse me?” A woman spoke from somewhere behind her. Leila bristled.

“Yes?” her new friend replied. His hands stilled.

Please, don’t notice, Leila prayed.

“Can you tell me if this train goes all the way up to Bedford Park?”

“I believe it does.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Cheeky bastard. Leila’s heart sank as the train once again slowed to a stop.

The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom: “125th Street.”

Shit. The next stop would be hers.

Leila expected his fingers to vanish, but they remained poised just below her buttocks.

A handful of people departed and even fewer got on. Again, the train car pitched to life. Her new friend continued to stroke her inner thighs, gliding down and skimming back up. Leila chewed at her lip and considered bending her knees to speed his ascent.

His fingers made contact with the crotch of her panties. She squeaked, grateful for the train’s incessant droning. He drew a firm line back and forth over her slit, grazing the spot just below her clitoris.

Leila’s nails cut into the heel of her hand as she tightened it around the bar.

Two fingers prodded at her, engraving a trench between her folds. Slipping between the elastic and her thigh crease, he made contact with Leila’s bare skin.

She gasped.

His fingertips were warm. He drew them back and forth over her lips before wedging himself between them, and Leila swore she heard a sharp intake of breath as he learnt just how wet she was, for him. The man distributed her juices, gliding upwards and forwards.

He found her clitoris.

Leila gritted her teeth as he prodded the tiny bundle of nerves, buffing it with his moistened fingers. Each circular stroke elicited a sharp twinge of arousal and threatened to send her into hysterics.

The man slid his other hand up and over her buttock. He cupped it, massaging it with his broad palm. She swayed with the train as it banked left, her feet slipping a few inches and placing her even deeper into the vee of his legs.

Gasps became whimpers; twinges deepened into throbs. His touch was light, yet insistent, unrelenting as he thrummed her sensitive bud. She bit down hard on her tongue as the muscles in her groin tensed, spasmed—

The conductor’s voice crackled over the low roar of the train car. “Now approaching 149th Street, Grand Concourse.”

Fuck. She came; her knees liquefying. If it hadn’t been for her vice grip on the overhead bar, she would’ve collapsed into his lap. The man drew slow circles over her, prolonging the ache.

The brakes squealed as the train coasted toward the 149th Street platform. Leila tapped the man’s foot with hers. He withdrew from her panties, gliding his fingertips down the backs of her thighs—including the two that were now slick with her juices. The stranger shuffled and stood, his torso flush against Leila’s back. His right hand covered hers on the overhead bar as the left planted itself on her backside. His breath washed over her, hot and moist upon her neck

Leila’s heart threatened to bust a hole through her chest.

The train car stopped and the doors slid open. She leaned back against the man’s torso and then snaked her palm out from beneath his. The last thing she felt of him was his hand as it uncoupled with her rear and the resulting chill as her skin grew accustomed to the lack of touch.

Weaving through the crowded car, Leila stepped onto the station platform. She breathed deep, letting the mob take her.

Is he following me? She wondered.

Leila pushed ahead, her pulse sprinting. Where do I go? Should I lead him to my apartment?

No, that’s insane. What if he’s dangerous?

Panic and arousal coalesced in her belly as she debated whether or not to duck into a bathroom or find an attendant. The stairs loomed and she climbed them two at a time, cursing the slow pedestrians ahead of her.

Oh, God, Leila thought. What do I do? She found it impossible to take a full breath. Gripping the banister, she hurled herself onto the top step and out into the street. She scanned the busy intersection, afraid to turn around, to face his expectant stare—after all, she’d let him get her off; now it was his turn.

This is crazy—crazy hot, but still crazy.

She jogged across the street and allowed herself to be swallowed up by the crowd. Footsteps thundered in her ears along with car horns and distant sirens. The crotch of her panties was practically soaked through and, even amidst the fear, she found herself longing to put all of that moisture to good use.

You’re willing to let a handsome stranger finger you on the subway but not in the privacy of your own room?

She sighed, trying to swallow the enormous lump in her throat. She swore she heard his heavy footsteps trailing behind her as she rounded the corner of the Bronx General Post Office.

But what if he wants to hurt me? Sweat trickled down from her hairline.

What if he’s as good with his mouth as he is with his hands?

Leila stopped short and spun around.

“Hey!” A girl’s voice barked.

Leila winced as she collided with a well-built teenager in a red sweater, the impact knocking her back against a lamppost.

“The hell did you stop for?” the girl shouted. “Dumb bitch.” The girl brushed herself off and stormed down the sidewalk, muttering obscenities.

Leila blinked; her chest tight and hands shaking. A drop of rain tapped her forehead and trickled down her temple, followed by another. The gray skies rumbled as the wind sent discarded newspapers whipping about the street.

Panting, Leila leaned against the lamppost and scanned the sidewalk for a familiar face, but there was no sign of the beautiful man with the skillful hands from the 4 Express train.

Damn, she thought.

 

Flash Fiction: En Route

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This short piece was inspired by a scene from one of my favorite films, Shame (2011). While the movie in its entirety deals with some very serious subject matter (namely, sex addiction), I’ve always found this particular scene to be incredibly sexy.

“En Route” takes place on a subway train in New York City. Part two—the conclusion—will be posted next week.

As always, I welcome and encourage any and all feedback! (Including conversations about Shame, which I’m always happy to talk about.)

Enjoy the ride. ♥


Part One

Leila tapped the touchscreen and waited as the machine converted her funds from one nebulous form of currency to another. Taking the blue and yellow MetroCard, she tucked it into the pocket of her brown jacket and hurried down the stairs to the turnstiles. She reached the platform just as the 4 Express train screeched into the Lexington Avenue terminal, opening its maws and relinquishing the hoard of disgruntled New Yorkers. Leila wrinkled her nose at the combination of body odor and bad perfume as she boarded the packed car.

She wedged her way into the middle, dodging knees and oversized shopping bags. The conductor’s impartial voice crackled over the speakers, announcing their next stop. Hugging her purse tight against her hip, she grabbed the overhead handrail.

The lacy hem of her cornflower-blue dress grazed the tops of her thighs as the train hurtled into the dark tunnel. Leila studied the reflection of the passengers in the window: a middle-aged woman in a brown coat; a round, bald man with thick-rimmed glasses; a college-aged woman in a blue dress with dark brown bangs that needed trimming.

She brushed the errant strands from her eyes.

A man cleared his throat. Leila glanced down at the passenger seated directly in front of her and was startled to find him watching her. Most regulars knew better than to maintain eye contact on the subway, but the presence of a navy blue duffel bag between his feet gave the impression that he might not be a resident.

The train surfaced. Gray, diffused light filtered into the car and she cursed herself for not bringing an umbrella. Denim brushed her calf. She peered down into the face of the man seated before her.

He’s actually quite cute, Leila thought. In fact, he’s downright gorgeous; probably early thirties. She bit her lip as she took in his long eyebrows, strawberry-blonde locks, and premature five o’clock shadow. Calloused hands curved over splayed knees, inches from her thighs. He had long fingers with strong knuckles and pronounced veins that ran up the backs of his palms and into his sleeves.

A smile played at the edges of her mouth. A man with nice hands: my kryptonite.

Her insides clenched and she felt the urge to rub her legs together. She attempted to cross her right foot over her left, but found it impossible with the duffel bag resting at their feet.

The man cocked an eyebrow. Leila’s pulse quickened and she licked her lips, letting her mouth fall open into a slight pout. The train descended into darkness once again, bathing them in artificial light. She slid her foot a few inches to the side, closing the distance between his knee and hers.

His forefinger and thumb brushed her skin. She gasped. The man’s lips curled into a mischievous half-grin as he encircled her knee with his hand. Her heart thudded in her ears, drowning out the low growl of the train. She slid her other foot out to touch his opposite knee. He grasped her legs with both palms.

What am I doing? Leila panted. The stranger strummed his fingertips along the backs of her knees, his gaze roving over her breasts and belly.

The train turned a corner, heaving her forward. He slid his palms a few inches higher, grasping her thighs just below the hem of her dress. She whimpered.

Worried that someone could be watching, Leila scanned the train car. Everyone appeared to be minding their own business, including the woman in the red raincoat to the stranger’s immediate left, who looked to be falling asleep.

Leila gasped as he slid a hand into the hem of her dress, gently scratching her with short fingernails. Her muscles clenched and she squeezed the overhead bar. A quick glance downward revealed an imposing phallic protrusion, tucked along the stranger’s left inseam. She bit her lip.

The train staggered and wailed to a halt. Passengers shuffled towards the doors and out of the car. As the crowd dissipated, the man lowered his hands to his own thighs. An ache of disappointment gripped Leila’s chest. She sighed.

“Turn around.” His voice was deep and barely a whisper.

Leila nodded and shuffled her feet, twirling to face the crowd. New passengers clambered into the car, forcing the throng to pack even closer. The man grasped her knees and guided them a half-step back between his legs.

The train lurched and was off again.


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