It's coming 12/4, but you reeeeaaaaally want one more taste, right?
Here you go:
Amy
I
wish it were my mouth, the
man's voice said, so faint I could barely understand.
I was sitting on the train, taking the T from
Porter Square to South Station on the Red Line, a day of fun in
Cambridge alone capped by this trip. We were underground, the train
lit up by blinking fluorescent lights, and the rumble of the cars
along steel tracks made it hard to hear.
And then, again, a man's voice:
bucking
against his hand, rushing to find the climax she wanted him to give
her. “And
if we weren’t about to get caught, it would be.”
“Caught?”
She panicked –
This
time, the voice was louder and...tinny. Robotic. An older, kindly-looking woman with a service dog glanced up, ears perked.
Someone
giggled. Where the hell was this coming from? I looked across the way
to see my reflection in the train car window, the same old Amy
staring back. Cultivated, half-lidded stare for city walking. Rumpled
hair in a ponytail. Yoga pants and a v-neck t-shirt. My bag, filled
with my wallet, some cosmetics, and –
My
tablet.
“Not
yet, my sweet,”
he insisted. “Not
until I’ve given you this pleasure, and you’ve given me your
abandon.”
His fingers stroked her –
“My,
oh, my,” said the woman across the way, who began to fan herself
with a piece of paper. “Someone is getting it on.”
Frowning,
I unzipped my bag.
The
voice grew louder.
Very
loud.
lips
and tongue tasting her as he drove two fingers inside her aching
pussy, clit on fire from his fingers
Pussy?
Clit? What the fuck was going on?
Snorts
and hoots filled the train car as every single set of eyes –
including the dog's –
were on me now.
“What
you listening to on your iPod, girl?” asked some old man five seats
away.
“I
–
what? No, I don't know what that is,” I protested, frantically
pawing through my purse.
“You
are reading something hot and steamy,” said a young voice with an
unplaceable accent. My head tilted up to follow the sound as my hands
searched for the tablet, buried under a bunch of new student
orientation notices from my grad school program.
“I'm
not reading any such thing –
” I locked eyes with a woman my age, with a huge halo of unruly
blond curls, merry green eyes, and eyebrows that twitched with
amusement.
“Let
go, Lydia,”
he whispered, grinding into her from behind, his words an urging she
didn’t need to hear twice.
Mouth
open, neck straining, she mewled a scream of unleashing, her body
thrusting against his fingers, her thighs shaking as she lost
control.
Except
she was right. The last thing I'd read on my tablet had been a very
hot romance novel, which left off with the hero and heroine trapped
in a broken elevator (doesn't every romance novel have to have at
least one scene like that?), and the words were familiar.
Too
familiar.
“Turn
it up! This is getting good!” called a guy across the way, wrists
covered with tats, a leering smile on his face.
Found
it! The computer almost slammed to the ground as my fingers were
flushed with fear and shame, the voice pouring forth unbidden:
Matt turned her around, thumb steady as it circled her hot, red
nub, and he took her mouth with his, her lips tense with climax, mind
on fire and body overcome with surges of heat, then chill, of riding
his hand to wring every drop of ecstasy.
The blonde chick started to
clap. A bunch of people joined her. I hate you,
I thought. The train came to a halt at Harvard Square and I
reflexively stood and darted through the pneumatic doors, the damn
eReader continuing its passionless narrative, the
crowd hooting and laughing hysterically. Someone pulled out their
phone and began snapping pics.
Dear God, please do not let this be some Facebook viral story.
the
intensity so much she nearly came again from the sound. “Next
time,”
he hissed, lips taking hers, pinning her lower lip between his teeth,
sucking, then using his tongue to explore her teeth, her palate, her
mouth being loved by his.
Damn
it! Where was the OFF button? This was a new tablet and in my
overwhelm and horror I –
“You
readin'
Fifty Shades?” She'd followed
me? The voice was so distinct for Boston that I didn't even need to
look up. Evil Blonde Subway
Torture Ringleader
was staring down at me as I crouched on the ground in front of a wall
covered with ads for movies, music, and other performances.
Skirt around her hips, he
used both hands to pin her ass to him, the weight of her release
resting in his palms as she swallowed, breathing labored and sensual,
his own breath.
“That's
some damn fine writing. Who's the author again?” Stepping back, she
finally got the hint as I ignored her, mercifully stopping the
barrage of words, words that had comforted and amused me just minutes
ago, now turned into weapons of social destruction.
Ready
to snap, I looked up to find her fading into the crowd. A Dunkin'
Donuts cup, greasy and covered with a fine layer of soot, was shoved
under my nose.
“Got any change?” a panhandler asked.
Hastily standing, I shook my head furiously. “No.”
“Got a vibrator? 'Cause I need to rub one out after hearing that.”
A six-toothed grin on the face of a woman my mom's age came along
with the comment, like a side of fries. She turned away to ask the
next person for money, leaving me holding my tablet, clutching my
bag, and too many stops away from my final destination.
As the new crowd assembled to wait for the next train, my heart rate
slowed from hummingbird to sloth, the flush on my face receded, and
my mind raced to replay what had happened. Jostling from the train car
going around a curve must have made something hit my text-to-speech
option, but how?
A laugh escaped through my nose,
soft and touched with a cringe that made
me want to hide under a rock. An unnarrated rock.
I shrugged. Ten more minutes and the next train would come. Might as
well read for the next ten minutes. After pointedly shutting all
sound off on my tablet the whoosh of air that indicated a new train's
arrival short-circuited my attempt. Shoving the tablet back in my
bag, I turned and saw it.
The poster.
Random Acts of Crazy. Performing tonight,
at a bar a few blocks from my new apartment.
Oh, Sam.
