Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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In the Outback

Kangaroos Silhouette Against The Setting SunI’m as much of an outsider to the populated metros as am to their remote and sparsely-inhabited inland. Yet, fate had it to see me become some sort of “tour guide”, an atypical one for the outback… too. The profession fell upon me through my father who moved he and I here when I was a teenager. He sought a world of peace far and away from the hustle and the bustle of consumerism and plutocracy. A self-made mountain-man back at the states, he lusted after the unknown of mother-nature. What better place to experience life than that where God only allows a few to survive: the land of the Kangaroos!

We spent months-on-end in the outback looking up at the stars during the night; gaining knowledge of the area and its people during the day. He built us a small scientific tour company to bring science out to the outback. It was our way of living, yet it took my happiness with it, too. I couldn’t accompany him in that last expedition from which he never returned. The last I heard of him was when he spoke to me through the screen door: “I’ll be back, son… no worries”, he said. The papers had it that a few of the members didn’t make it through the dry season but, I refused and still do, to believe that my dad was amongst the thirsty ones left behind.

The local media got a hold of my story and published it. It led to a major flood of thrill seekers at my doorsteps looking to go deep into the outback where other tourist guides refused to travel. They accompany me with the knowledge that I am not there for them nor their safety. There is always the possibility for one, or all of us not to return. I’ve spent most of the past 20 years looking from my father in the outback. I haven’t stumbled upon anything to build my hopes, still they are as high now as they were when I set out to find him.

Aboriginal OutpostBecause there isn’t a need for cash out here, I rarely ever charge more than food and spirits for my services. Tourists are dropped off for my pickup at random areas where I’m known to come collect water and materials throughout the year. It is also not guaranteed that I’ll make the drop-off times. If I’m not there in a three day window, I won’t be coming back for months; alternate spots must be sought by eager tourists. The few of us who live out here known where and when each of us loners is most likely to pop up.

I’ve become friends with many-a-criminals as I have kindhearts living and hiding out there. They have spared my life from nature more than once, too; which gives me hope that the same fate could have been experienced by my father. To the scattered englishmen in the outback I’m known as “the boy” because of the young age when I began my father’s search; the aborigines call me “unsettled spirit”. So called because of the pain I carry inside that keeps me pressing on and won’t let me die. They, the aborigines, are excellent companions in the dark of the night and the dry of the day. They taught me that while the outback is an unforgiving land, it has a way of selecting who will come out unharmed. No one enters here who can leave if nature selects them to stay behind… if fate cares not to spare their life. My dad could very well be one of selected ones but, that doesn’t mean his life could have been the price paid to stay.

Aboriginal WomanI have not picked up a tourist in my last three stops, a years worth of time I gather. My companion for the past few months, Kora, has rejected my taking on anyone, believing that the nocturnal spirit would have taken my life were I insolent enough to have brought them. The unlucky tourists have all been Americans. The greedy type, not the usual mellow fellows who find a breakage of an appendage time to smoke it up and drink. I’ve obeyed Kora each time. Being a foreigner to this land makes me listen to the people who’ve survived in it the longest. So, the soulless fellows have gone home after a few losing physical altercations with me. I suppose their money gives them the birthright to be disgraceful back at home, but here, in this land, I am the graceful one.

It’s the hottest period since anyone can remember. It’s been so hot that Kora believes we should create a new name for this type of heat. All I’ve heard in the week long journey to the only outpost within a reasonable trek is how the sun is not at all pleased. I am in an honest need for Kora to stop following me, or a few tourists to occupy Kora’s stories. She’s a kind one, but sometimes being alone in the outback for too long leaves one thirsty for verbiage. Oh, she’s at that point.

The night prior to reaching the outpost, Kora alerts me that this group of tourists, three in total, is welcomed in the outback. That I’ll be pleased of this group. I pay her little mind. I’m tired and would like a good night’s rest. She falls fast asleep quickly while I stay awake listening to the concoction of life during the night; more than any before I pay particular attention to it all around me. The fluttering of wings, footsteps drawing closer and walking away into the distance, the occasional thunder, and the whistles of the aborigines communicating in the dark. It was as if my ears were open for the very first time. Kora has been on a steady night-long-sleep. I haven’t slept… anxious for the imminent arrival of sunrise. To keep busy, I’ve been throwing twigs onto the bonfire to keep us warm. I enjoy the crackling sound of burning wood, coupled to the changing colours of both the twigs and the fire, it is as if alluding to the passages of a lifetime in just seconds.

I’ve prepared a meal for Kora and I, she’ll be up soon to get underway. She awakens ready to travel, ready to talk… If I’m not ready she’ll leave without me; not a bad thought at this point.

Leather Bowler HatI’m eager to feel the heat of the sun in the morning, to feel it strike my body until arriving at the outpost where we can ignore the sweat and suffocating weather for a few minutes. I’ve grown accustomed to the effects of the sun. I’m shirtless throughout the day most days… though covered in dust. I wear rubber-bottom cowboy boots and a old dusty leather bowler hat. At night my father’s leather overcoat prevents shivers from the unseasonably-cool breeze. I carry a day-pack with my belongings; not many, but essential for survival out here.

Kora spoke all morning long. She related about places I hadn’t yet visit, and the issues affecting her people. There wasn’t a topic she didn’t tackle. She even spoke of sexual encounters amongst the aborigines and the English.

By the time we reached the outpost, a few Englishmen were already loading two horses. They greeted me warmly, informing me that they were about to head east in my search to ask if I cared to indulge a few American tourists. As payment, these sneaky American mates brought three different bottles of whiskey from Colorado, loads of smoked beef, and dried fruits. How can I deny them with such delicacies brought to the wild! I shall take them, and drop them off in three weeks time at the abandoned post south east of here. They’ll be secure there until someone arrives to collect them.

They are an odd group. Kora continuously laughs at their mannerism… never having seen people like them; more so, men like the two in the group. Of the three people, two are males. The last is a woman in her early forties. The two men are, americanly-so, gay. Very flamboyant, friendly as can be, just as they are fearful of it all. I’m not sure why they chose me to trek the outback. There are far more accommodating guides than me. And, I’m not sure how Kora thinks these bloques will make it out in one piece. The woman stands a better chance than do the two fellows.

There are times when I pick tourists from, and return them to this very particular post. The proprietor, a young widower, allows usage of her horses for a small payment. The payment is of course, my services. Today she won’t be collecting any, I have not engaged in such services for well over a year. I haven’t a need for them at the moment. We are to set afoot for a week through some of the less traveled regions in the outback. The horses, and spending more energy here can only hinder us.

At the post Kora and I get acquainted with the tourists, eat then rest up until sun down. I indulged in too much of the fine spirits brought from the Americas than I anticipated. It was best to wait until I returned to my wits to resume the journey. Kora entertained everyone at the outpost, not hushing until it was time to leave. We are to walk for a few hours into the night. With the full moon it will be less difficult than otherwise. For the entire journey, the two men and the woman walk in a single line holding hands. They follow me and Kora ensures they don’t unsafely lag behind, she holds them tight at the end of the group.

I came to learn that they had selected to undertake this trip as a tribute to the woman’s father who had passed away here in the outback. She wasn’t American as her comrades, she was an Australian woman who’ve lived her entire life in America. Her father came home to rest in peace. He was an aborigine, and her mom was a white Australian. This journey was a homage to her departed father. The two fellows accompanying her were two of her closest friends. They didn’t know what situation they had agreed to undertake. But by the constant yelps and screams tonight… I’m fairly sure they grasp the situation.

Satisfied that we’d had enough of a head start, I set camp by a tree-lined thermal spring. That night I didn’t sleep either. The woman and I stayed awake trading stories about our fathers. She was in delightful physical condition. She appeared like one of them new-age women who spent too many hours sweating while holding strange poses at a yoga class. Her posture was incredibly flawless: standing or sitting. It was joy to watch her shape against the night with the help of a bonfire.

When light broke free of the night, her two companions awoke in an uproar. They had neglected to bring some items of utmost importance with them: digital cameras, music players, and chapstick. Kora agreed to take them back to the cabin, and catch up to us in a days time. I didn’t enjoy the idea of separating from Kora, but did welcome the thought of a quiet stroll through the outback without her. We agreed on a convening location: the mound of Birrahgnooloo, due south of our present whereabouts.

Scarlett was her name. As talkative as Kora was. I learned, at times ignored all about her. From life in college to becoming an author, she spoke of it all. I even learned that she’d only been intimate with one person: her high school sweetheart. When her father passed away, she became depressed… eventually abandoning him.

I walked ahead of her, often having to stop awaiting her slow gait to catch up. I’m not used to babysitting in the outback. It’s hard to wait on someone. It was midday, terribly hot, and it was time to eat. I set down my day-pack, instructed Scarlett to stay put until my return. I was gone close to two hours hunting a meal. I had to skin, gut and cook the three rabbits. I didn’t want to expose her to the outback faster than needed. When I returned she ate the meal not asking what it was. I assumed she preferred not knowing what it was.

I said little during the meal, but watched every move she made. My sight was fixated on her sweaty white shirt. Her breast attached the shirt speaking of full meals and pleasing sounds. She noticed me looking in her direction. She bashfully tugged at the shirt between her breasts and apologized for the sweat covered body. “Nonsense”, I exclaimed. “Sweat is part of the outback. You’ll get used to it.”

The continuation of the trek was somewhat peculiar. It was the first time that a female tourist probed into my sexual behavior. She was curious about how I managed the urge to be satisfied out in the wild. Who, when, where, how… when was the last encounter and with whom? Do I and Kara share more than a friendship? I had no reason to answer. It’s not habitual of me to reveal personal facts to strangers. I purposely disregarded the conversation; not because I ignore that I desire as much as the next primate but, out here in the outback many things entertain a person, many other things that I find more important than lust.

She wasn’t as secretive about her desires. She revealed details about her sexual preferences. What she didn’t and did like; how her monotone experiences sparked the curiosity in other men. She’d been a good girl, never deviated from her husbands ways, though often wondered about any and all the possibilities being missed by the limits of a lifelong partner. In her 40s now, she was ready to delve deeper into her sexual persona. All of the hard work on her physique was specifically for naughty purposes. Her belief was that feeling good about her appearance would draw a dormant personality. She would then have no quarrels withstanding the unknown of a controlling brute during intercourse. She’d handle it all, yet be able to fight back enticing more pleasurable-aggression from him.

Much of the sun was already under the horizon, only about a fifth stood short preventing the night from taking over. It was either pushing through ignoring hunger to a more suitable spot not two hours ahead, or listen to Scarlett who insisted we stop to bathe in the temporary lake that’d been created during the big rains up ahead. I reluctantly agreed. I was about to set off to hunt for our next meal when the sight of Scarlett undressing out in the open prevented my departure. She walked passed me into the water as if I weren’t even present. I turned to watch her walk into the lake, knee deep. She hinged at the hips right before my eyes. I wanted to forget about the next meal and consume her to my whim. But I didn’t. Instead I tossed her my knife, my whistle and asked her to use the whistle if in need of help.

I was gone for close to an hour, returning empty handed. I was far too distracted by the thought of Scarlett leaning over with her back to me. The slight changes of skin tones her body projected as muscles weaved and shaped her physique, just as did her anatomy, intoxicated me. I spent the majority of the time pondering the feast to be had with her. She made me forget about nutrition as means to survival. I desired her body as supplemental to nutrition. I licked and bit my lower lip until it throbbed. I could imagine her taste as it turned into my vitamins and minerals.

Stranahan's - Colorado WhiskeyScarlett had opened a bag of the smoked meat I received as payment from them, along with packaged goods she had been carrying. She looked to have had quite the meal. I opened a bottle of the Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey, sat on the floor and watched her gaze into the imminent dawn of the night. She wore a pair of ripped jean; the pocket mesh was coming out of one of the openings from where the colour maroon of her undergarment was visible. She had a fashionable safari shirt alluding to her inexperience in the wild. I drank, stared, and wondered if she thought to be in the Australian Exhibit at the San Francisco zoo.

While looking up at the sky, she asked if it could get any more beautiful. “Breathtaking they are, those very little suns suspended faraway in night of the sky. I’ll start a fire to lay beside where we can rest the dark away by counting stars.”

Magnesium starters are invaluable. They can start a fire in the thick of snow. Out here, a quick swipe and Scarlett rejoices about the little flames coming from the gathered twigs. She sways her hips without much need for music. I watched her lower body move, wondering if she would be as savvy when in my grasp.

By the onset of the night Scarlett and I sat adjacent to each other throwing sticks in the bonfire. We’d lay down to stargaze until it was time to refuel the fire. Only when a shooting star sped away in the distance would we comment. It was very quiet; enough to hear each other breathe. We took turns feeding the fire until she fell asleep. I got up to ensure there was enough supply of wood to keep it burning until the morning. I didn’t go to sleep right away. I walked about the edge of the lake listening to the nocturnal life satisfying their thirst.

Eventually I returned next to Scarlett. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but it must have been fairly quick. The next thing I recall is Scarlett shaking me awake. A howling dingo nearby scared her sleep away. She did not want to stay awake by herself, nor did she want to return to sleep fearing the dingo. I stood up, grabbed the Stranahan’s, took a big gulp and said: “What do you suppose we do in the middle of the night if not sleep?” She approached me, took the bottle from my hands and placed it back my day-pack. I wasn’t to have any more of whiskey that night. She refused I drink any more.

Scarlett again probed into my personal life; asking if Kora and I engaged in adult acts. I ignored her once, twice, thrice and again I ignored her. It wasn’t until she asked me to sit on the floor that I understood the severity of her constant inquiries. I sat on the ground facing the bonfire. Legs stretched out towards it. She stood between my legs and pushed them to the sides. Button by button she opened the Safari shirt, which she left unbuttoned exposing her bare chest to the howling dingoes.

Gab of woman between inner thighsShe wasn’t as deliberate removing her jeans; those she pushed down easily without having to unbutton. They fell to the ground with the same rapidly-fluid motion that my mouth opened. I wished for endless lightning to cover the starry-sky providing the necessary light to admire every detail of her form. I wanted to see the maroon undergarments pressed against silhouetting her intimate persona. I desired to see the opening created between her crotch and upper inner thighs when legs are held together. I wanted to see the outback through the opening.

I was told to unbuckle my belt, to unbuttoned my jeans, and to pull out. I did not anticipate her candidness, nor was I about to let her command me, I grabbed her right arm pulling her down atop of me. She straddle around my lap, telling me that she that the hard welcome was a joy. She tried to stroke me, but I refused. I wanted to engulf my lips with her breasts, run my tongue throughout the sides of her neck, even reach towards her earlobes to feel the soft of her skin against my tongue.

Her opened shirt gave way to the most supple, yet pleasantly-firm-to-the-touch chest this side of the Glosses Buff. I became instantly infatuated by them. I crafted my mouth upon her upper torso as a skilled artist would upon his canvas. The desire was to ravage her yet, the soothing touch of skin on her bare chest against my lips prevented it. It enticed me to comfort my desire with gentle maneuvering of her breasts.

The outback surrounding us hushed down to perfect silence. It all except the crackling of wood burning away in the bonfire intently listened to her and I. Dingoes, footsteps, chirps, whistles nor the wind interrupted our dialog. The still of the night gave voice to the sound of her desire, the sound of my lips against her skin. It hurt to stop the feeling of her nipples gracing my tongue, but I sought to kiss Scarlett… just Scarlett. And that we did, we kissed; at times aggressively, others gently. She’d exhale into me, I’d exhale into her. It was no more than the exchange of desire through breaths. I would have inhaled every last breath of her passion that night, had it been perpetual.

During one of the moments of aggressive kissing, she reached down, grasped me with her left hand, lifted her body and slowly lowered herself until I was fully covered by her innermost sensations. She released a slow and steady “ah” that prevented us from kissing until her wits returned. Her hips remained immobile… simply holding me steady, embracing me as if sheltering a storm. I felt the contouring of her insides pressing against me, just as I felt the saturation gradually sipping down until my scrota was covered. Her chest pressed against mine yielded glimpses of her heartbeat as it accelerated and decelerated calibrating the rush of blood throughout the organs in her body.

More eventful it didn’t come to be. There was no movement of her hips colliding against mine sending the splash of wet skin against wet skin through the desert. The most vibrant sound in the outback that moment was that of our lips kissing, of two people losing reality in one another. We remained in the same position consuming our lips until she climaxed. She struggled to kiss me at that point… she did managed opened-mouth contact against my lips coupled to moans sprinkled with sighs. I didn’t respond. I stood still waiting for her to complete the experience. She climaxed longer than I have been used to. Her expression revealed through hints of the remaining fire was enough for me to end our adventure at that point. Yet, when she finished, she looked me in the eyes and ask that I too finish inside of her; to moisten her need to be with that rugged man that didn’t respond to anything or anyone.

The sound of her voice drove chills reached every digit in my body. I opened my mouth and struggled to express what I felt. I tried looking at her, tried looking up, tried to restrain the pleasure from saturating the night. It proved impossible. She looked down at me smiling…

The fire had gone out; remaining was our bodies next to one another, totally free of clothing. The early frenzy of outback life welcoming us. It was time to press on to meet Kora, but not before tracing my hands throughout her physique.


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Texts, Taxi Cabs and Fares

An unexpected text causes me to smile. It’s a been a long workday and this slow taxi cab ride from Brixton to Charing Cross is not my preferred method of transportation during a snowstorm. In fact, I hate even the driver who fancies a chat when I intend on being left alone. I attempt the disinterested stare out the rear-passenger’s-side window, yet he finds it an invitation to probe into my personal affairs.

Thank goodness for the text. I couldn’t have entertained neither the thought of watching snow banks pass-by along the side of the roadway, nor the chatter of the driver for the duration of the journey. The text changes everything. I already know that time will feel quicker than it is making the ride much enjoyable.

The text is a continuation to our latest interactions when I left wondering who I was. The instance I read the text, blood rushes to blood vessels on the surface of my face giving me that feeling of emotional embarrassment. Thankfully the dark of the early evening has already set. It will cover my emotional state from the driver, even if slightly. I look around verifying that no one else can see the text. I’m not sure why I looked, there is no one else in the vehicle but me and the driver. It must be a nervous reaction. Sexting

I scoot over to the corner behind the drivers seat, hunch my shoulders, grab the mobile with both my hands and respond, “I’m too shy for such. I will not.”

Minutes later I’ve forgotten my initial response. All I feel is the temperature rising in the taxi cab, and an instantiable desire to obey the commands popping up on the mobile phone. I’ve been persuaded into lust brought about by imagery from messages; faceless messages at that. I’m nothing short of a morning dew announcing the arrival of the heated sun. I try to hide deeper in the corner and away from the driver’s field of vision. There is nothing else I want to do but to oblige… there is not a reason not to follow the texts.

“LOL”, is my response trying to conceal from him that I am following the picturesque texts; laughing out loud I’m not. I am rather filled with vigor. I am captive to it and the means to liberty is to thank the elasticity of leggings. I slide my right hand down where it’s welcomed by a blooming saturation. I know what I like and how to go about achieving it. Another “LOL” to buy me time to the spread my lips apart and rub. SextingBut, the taxi cab loses traction and it goes sideways almost hitting a snow bank. I’m sent across the back seat to the other corner, my hands still down my pants tasting how well the texts have made me feel.

The driver apologizes profusely. I am startled, pull my hand out, look down and feel embarrassed. Though he didn’t seem to notice the whereabouts of my hand, I felt that I had been see in a most intimate moment. I return to my hidden position, but this time I am hiding of embarrassment. As I’m looking down hiding my face from the driver I notice how my reaction to the text is still undeterred. The gray leggings are visibly admirable. I am contoured to them well enough to lure my hand right down and over the leggings to assess the desire.

I’m still warm, and in need of touch. I grab myself as if I were an athlete adjusting his package and feel how plentiful the Good Lord has made me. I’d be quite endowed were I a man. I tug on the leggings pulling them out from the contour they’ve created on me, and again slide my hand down. There are a few messages to my delight. I read them while gently massaging myself, gently inserting my index finger into myself. I place the phone down beside me, pull on the elastic waist of the leggings and try to look at myself. I slap my lips and tell them out loud that Richard should be manhandling them.

The car comes to a stop, the driver looks at me oddly. I turn cold, grab my purse look for cash but there are no small bills. I recklessly push the door open, rush out forgetting payment, have to turn around to throw the money at him and tell him to keep the rest of the fare. He says goodbye to me with a happy tone. I’m sure he was happy… I think he knew of my hands whereabouts saturated with me along with my finger hidden deeper than eyesight allowed.


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L’Inspecteur de Ballet

Whether professional or novice, each dancer for the Coppélia Romantic Ballet Company must pass a series of examinations. Not a single dancer can perform without my approval. I’m known as L’Inspecteur de Ballet; not because I am French, but so due to my affinity for the work of one Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec — a Realism and Postimpressionism French painter from the late 19th century. I own multiple of his canvases, mostly, of course, ballerinas. Be it by love for his work, or love of the ballerinas, I don’t know. What I do know is that I stare at the paintings just as meticulously as I inspect my dancers.

The day of the performance I suit-up to near perfection. I look as professional in my suit as do my dancers in their leotards, leggings and tutus; not a thing in disarray. I slick back my hair to do nothing more with it but place a hat atop it. After staring at myself in the mirror to complacency, I head towards the dressing room to begin examination of dancers. I normally don’t finish in time, so the lead and last of the dancers is inspected behind the curtains, up-in-stage prior to the performance.

The one time when I press the pace to a hurry is when running up the stairs to prevent the lead ballerina from going onto stage without my final inspection. From time to time I have delayed the start of a performance until thoroughly satisfied that my dancers look their best, even if they fail to perform as expected. In the past a few dancers have performed without my approval, and they’ve been momentarily relieved from their duties, consequently charged with penance. Upon its completion they have returned to stage, but a second infraction means expulsion from the company. I’ve yet to lose a dancer.

Already examined dancers wait for the completion of the final inspection lined up from the top of the staircase that leads to the stage, down to the bottom. Only I and the lead dancer are allowed behind the curtains and on stage during the inspection; I can not be disturbed unless I so call upon. Something might be out of sorts which could determine the success of the event. I can not have that!

Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901), Dancer (1895-96).Once on stage, I circularly wave my hand about in the air notifying the lighting crew that the spotlight is to be directed at us. I pace about the ballerina outside the circumference of the spotlight as not to obscure the line of sight with my shadow. I walk as slow as I do with intent. I observe all of her. From her hair down to the shoes, then up again. I do so for various minutes. Sometimes I tug at the tutu, other times run my fingers on her hair to properly align misplaced hair strands. Most often I ask for a second tutu; the lighting of some venues do not properly reflect the pattern of the tutu. If it all looks to be pristine, I draw closer for the final say. With my right hand I grab the side of her face and move it from side to side, up and down. I talk to her, ask what, or where she thinks she should be inspected. “As you wish”, I’ve come to expect from this particular ballerina.

During the “more personal” part of the inspection anything and all is reviewed. Her hands go up in the air so that I can inspect the length of her triceps as the long head leaves the elbow and hides below the rear deltoid. I also Inspect the forearm muscles as they supinate and pronate the hand. I run my hands down her flanks to the waistline where I press with my thumbs against her obliques. I like to watch her pelvis rotate forward. I repeat the process two, three times to gauge the sway of the tutu against slight motion.

At this point I take a knee in front of her, reach down to one of her ankles with both hands, slightly apply pressure and trace upwards to the crotch area with my eyes closed. I want to feel the contour of her muscular leg against my hands. Once at the crotch, the leg is shaken looking for little to no excess “after-motion”. The muscular shaking should stop quickly after I stop shaking the thigh. I do the same for the second leg. This time I am a bit faster in ascent but then, at the thigh, I slow down pressing firmly against the inner thigh. There I massage for a good amount of time while working upwards to where the top of my hand touches her crotch.

After a momentary massage of her crotch, I sweep towards her glutes with both hands, grasp them on the palm of my hands and lift. It is a test of their balance as I pull unexpectedly forward… she’s never fallen for it, not even the very first time. The feeling of each butt cheek engulfed on my palms under the tutu and over the leotard is exhilarating. I grasp firmly, then ask for the butt cheeks to clench. The hardness must be there, not in me, though it is, but in her glutes so that it perks out as it should in any and all good dancers.

Dancer Painting by Toulouse-LautrecVerifying the conditioning of the glutes over the leotard can be deceiving. That’s why I slide my hands between the leotard and the leggings to again feel the strength of her bottom. I don’t pull them out! Instead I choose to travel towards the crotch with my hands still between the leotard and the leggings. This is where the final minutes of the inspection are spent. I adjust, trace, tug until the perfect shape is achieved. I like for her to be plump, supple and tight where the the vision is reminiscent of a smiling cat.

I like to run my digitus medius down the center of her crotch to create a seducing indentation. I do so until I feel that she’s warm and moist. With this particular ballerina, I like to pull the leotard to the side of the crotch to see if the leggings show signs of moisture; and that they do! She is very quick to react to the examination. During this very procedure I notice that the leggings aren’t tight enough, they are bulging. I grab the extra fabric and tear it causing a rip down from the crotch to the inner left knee. I look behind me and ask for another pair of leggings; quickly too.

In the meantime I have her remove the leggings. I spread her legs to the sides and continue to run my digitus tertius smearing the wet in her throughout the area. By now she’s got both her hands on my shoulders and her eyes closed. I lean lower, bring the digit to my mouth and taste it. As radiant as she is on the dance floor, she’s even more so… desirably intoxicating to my mouth. I lean even lower to bring my tongue within touching distance of her. My tongue contours to her anticipating the moisture that strikes with lust.

The scent discloses that I should further expand my whereabouts. I slide my hand to wet my index finger, then head back to soak the perineum. Little by little I wait for this “thing” she does when asking of me to intrude the calm of her body. She flexes her legs and stands on the tip of her toes. I adore the sight of her muscular legs… how the thighs define and her calves enunciate. I allow my index to penetrate while my tongue massages her intentions. I don’t have to move my hand. She controls the depth in which she swallows my finger. The continuous up and down stance she undertakes weakens me. Were it not for the late time, I would lower my slacks to allow her to engulf me. To allow her to completely saturate me. To feel how strong she can hold, squeeze me while inside of her.

Having the leggings delivered to me, I take a last look at her. I turn her around, slightly bend her at the waist to admire the supple of her nature. A last kiss to the saturated area, followed by a grabbing bite and I release her. It is time for the leggings and commence of the performance. I am now ensured that it will all work well.

I watch her perform, really not seeing anything but thinking of the look of her femininity up close. I can still smell her aroma, can still taste it on my finger. Oh how I can’t wait for tomorrow’s act.


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Subway Guitarist

There are those who spend their life traveling the subway as no more than a means to transportation. I’m not one of those. I’m the type that calls the subway, work. My office hours are from 8AM to 10AM and again from 4PM to 6PM, Monday to Friday. I work during rush hour and only during rush hour. I’ve come to know exactly the times for which trains, and cars in it I need to board to earn the most money.

The idea came to me not two years ago after becoming a company-downsizing-casualty. It was about 4PM during the summer. I was sitting on cart 6 in subway train A returning uptown. I had just been downsized and I was extremely disappointed about the future. My training was as a musician, and as we know, most of us are starving while playing gigs… but where else: the subway system. There was this beautiful young girl pressed against her mans crotch, his hands were down her sweat-pants obviously making her feel better than I was.

I toyed around with the idea of working in the subway for a few months, and then it became apparent that corporate America didn’t have a cubicle for me. So I grabbed my guitar, put it on my back and hopped on the train. It took a few days to figure out how I’d get it done. I wasn’t going to become one of those public “giggers” at the same location everyday all day. I was going to move about the city trying out every spot to maximize profit. I was going to go to my clients, rather than have them come to me.

I currently have a list of regulars. Sometimes I’m free to gig, but more times than not I am booked. I start uptown on the C and work my way downtown, to then return home on the A. In the two years I’ve been doing this, I’ve only been approached a handful of times by strangers. All through hearsay. When that happens, I cancel my gigging with the source. It also tells me that I’m proficient at what I do that clients are eager to come to me. I’ve never taken a walk-up; always have been the one hand selecting clients.

I’ve considered myself street savvy. Not too much, but just enough to know that a free sample of a quality product gets anyone hooked. I use that knowledge to let my hands help me earn a living. I lost a client yesterday in the 9AM hour. He moved to the suburbs and will be telecommuting starting today. I haven’t had to find a new client going in 9 months, but I guess this baby is ready for delivery, so today I go out to find the “purr-fect” client.

Subway GuitaristAs always, I dress professionally with the exception of the guitar on my back. It’s part of my work-attire. A skirt-suit with high-heels, stockings, no bra to display the perk in my upper body, hair in a ponytail, and gray contact lenses; the gray colour always mesmerizes men. I stand on the platform waiting for my train that I know will be filled. Normally daily riders frequent the exact same wagons on the train, even if they don’t consciously know it, but it’s normally the same. Because I know that, I know which wagons have the highest return on my investment.

Today I choose cart 4 on train A going uptown. There are a few fellows who I know will ache to feel how well my hands play with instruments. The process is always the same. I place the guitar on my back to create a buffer space between the intended client and me. I follow him inside the train and stand back to back with him. During the ride I ensure that the guitar collides with him as many times as it can. Eventually they all turn to complain. When they turn to express discomfort, I turn, look at them and say. “Would you prefer my hands play with more than the guitar?”, Not yet has anyone rejected the offer. Some are more daring than others and outright agree. I’ll see how the one today reacts.

It takes not one stop for this fellow to ask me to watch my guitar. In the crowded train its difficult to move, but with years of experience behind me maneuvering in the crowded train, I quickly turn. He looks at me and tells me that my guitar violated his personal space. I look him straight in his eyes, break a smile, look down and don’t say anything. He responds with “I’m sorry, why the smile.”, “Nothing, it’s nothing.”, I says. He still inquiring, wondering why the flirtatious smile. That’s when I tell him: “Would you prefer my hands play with more than the guitar?”

He looks shocked. These mature-preppy fellows are all alike. Lots of bark and little action when confronted by an attractive woman and touched outside their comfort zone. His unresponsiveness is an agreement to my audacity. In the next bump I let my hand swing, gracing his already filled desire. He notices my intentions and closes-in just so. I grab a handful of him and strike a small chat. I talk mostly while he concentrates on my hand jerking him over the pants. These cats all seem to read the same fashion magazines, they all wear loose boxers.

With each station stop I grow bolder with the help of the increasing number of riders packing into the train car. By the fifth stop I’ve unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. My hand is down the briefs, my body is real close to his ear giving him a play-by-play of how he feels on my pretty and manicured hand. “It’s soft.”, says he. I tell him that ejaculating on it will feel much better, to stay close to me and let my hand play music.

I lie mostly to the men. Even the small gifted as this man; I tell them the things I wish were told to me were I a man and a woman was stroking me. I tell them I wonder how he would fill inside of me, wrapped around my lips, dripping from the side of my mouth. That I would love to stand beside him stroking all day; feeling the thick head between my fingers alluding to how the head would penetrate me. I push down farther to grab the scrota. I squeeze the contents hard enough for me to feel each individual one, for him to feel it nice and good. “I want them in my mouth.”, I whisper. “Jerk me, jerk me”, he responds.

The train pulls up to my next stop. It’s time to meet the next client. I pull my hand out, buckle him up, reach into my jacket pocket and hand him a card. “Call me tonight.” Maybe I’ll finish it. I slap him on his crotch, kiss my hand that I just hand down there, say “goodbye honey”, and run to my next client.

It doesn’t take convincing. He is mine and tomorrow the 9AM slot on car 4 of train A will be booked; rent paid.