by Fulani
The succubus was in the form of a statuesque female nude, classical style.
Lauren shrugged. Well, why not go there? It would certainly be different.
‘That’s fine, I’ll take both. One of each is good.’
The knowing smile turned into a grin of secret complicity. ‘You know what? When these first came in, I tried them. I lit four all at the same time …’
It was Lauren’s turn to feel like she was sharing a secret. ‘That was just plain greedy!’
‘I didn’t know what they did, did I? Not the first time. Couldn’t walk properly for days …’
‘Are many women buying these?’
‘Nope. I haven’t exactly advertised them. So unless you’ve told your friends …’
Lauren shook her head. She didn’t know what prompted her to say it, but she said it anyway.
‘You know what? We should get together sometime and light a whole bunch of them …’
The other girl’s eyes said yes, even before she could open her mouth.
The Moment
by J.
On St Pancras Southbound Platform B, a man paces, an old woman reads the nonsense news about young women, and Chiyoko sits with her hands beneath her thighs. When the train squeals into the station, every clean, groomed commuter boards the shuttle-tube home. Except one. Chiyoko stands under the artificial light as she grips her leatherette briefcase with both hands, and watches the hydraulic doors shut on the 18:14 service.
She edges her head left and right. As the hum-clunker-rumble of the train in the tunnel fades, she can only see empty concrete and steel. Chiyoko’s ribcage is all canon fire. She smells the flavour of the dust in the air at ten times its real perfume, and the woman taps her heels over to the small triangle in shadow at the end of the platform, where the CCTV cannot see.
This could be the third time.
Softly the briefcase touches the floor. The station is empty. Chiyoko unbuttons her blue office shirt by five holes. Already it is illicit-wonderful. Pulling the fabric back, her breasts are naked. Already it is verboten. Her Japanese skin is opalescent, and it beams through the gloom like moonlight in the great dark sky. But new footsteps beat the floor 30 feet away, turning up higher the hardness in Chiyoko’s nipples.
It is difficult to say how long the walker will take. She lifts up her left breast and licks without making a sound – rubbing her smooth chin over its wide, dark centre six times. If it is a woman, the pedestrian will shriek. If it is a man, he will pretend he has not seen. But so far she has never been caught sucking her own tits in public.
She is curvy-slim. She is twenty-seven. And she is in danger of being discovered on the edge of Platform B. Someone could always appear across the tracks on the northbound side, but the footsteps are now 20 feet away.
The life-joy is in her chest and she wants to take off everything – to stand with the dimples of her back against the shining girders. Her skin is tingling nude. This approaching commuter must be wearing high heels from the tone, but Chiyoko’s nipples are both slick under the clay-water of her spit. Today, right now, she feels made of methamphetamines soaked in alcohol. And the smalls of her legs are sweating.
Chiyoko would be fired the moment Morgan & Fletcher Associates found out she touches herself on the London Transport Network public, but her left nipple is stiff in her mouth. The pedestrian walks onto the platform.
It is known that Japan has a cuteness fixation. For bodies being heavily stylised, and highly pronounced at the eyes to the point of animated beauty. Chiyoko has been built to this specification. But unlike the previous two times, she has not stopped circling the lust magic into her goose bumped chest. It feels twice as heady as last Tuesday. The pedestrian could turn its head at any moment. She pulls her arms out of her thin shirt, so it falls onto the floor in a light rumple.
Chiyoko lifts her eyes to look down the platform. The woman is a tall blonde of about thirty, peering the other way into the black tunnel. From the orange LCD sign, a train is due in six minutes. But she is kneading each breast like pale dough, and the passengers, when they draw in, will see her bare from the inward turn of her waist up to her red face. She is too hard to stop.
The woman wishes she could pause time so she could rub her tits in between heavy traffic; in the leafy park; in front of policemen. And while she feels drugged with the sexy-horny-fuck-me-roughly feeling, the train is due in four minutes now. Her chest tissue has bulged out with her tripled circulation. There is just enough time to put her shirt back on, if she stops now. Stops now.
Footsteps are around her side, and gentle woman’s hands are on top of her hands, on top of her tits. As a kiss is pressed onto her, Chiyoko rests her head against the cascade of straight hair coming down the side of the pedestrian’s face. But new footsteps start thirty feet away, inside the station.
If it is a woman, she will call the police. If it is a man, he will not.
‘We have to stop,’ Chiyoko says.
‘Wait.’
Chiyoko kisses two inches from the woman’s mouth, and slides the pedestrian’s right hand under the grainy hem of her skirt. The pedestrian has no name. She has no history and no future. But she sucks the Japanese girl’s tits while the clomp, click, clomp of shoes comes closer.
‘We can’t. Not now.’
‘I really don’t think I care,’ the pedestrian says a little too loud in a very, very English tone.
There is perfect line between her eyes and Chiyoko’s, and her fingers feel large down there. Through the bunching, olive fabric, Chiyoko pushes the woman’s hand in towards herself, and she leans against the cool metal while libido buzzes inside her labia like a ringing bell. Warm air breezes in from the tunnel.
‘What’s your name?’ Chiyoko asks.
‘No.’
‘I need to know your name.’
Chiyoko strokes the well-combed back of the pedestrian’s head.
‘Come on. What’s your name?’
She kisses her.
‘Tell me your name.’
‘Eva.’
The second pedestrian is now a silhouette in the background of Eva’s vision. It has turned to look at them. After three seconds of absolute quiet, the woman shrieks, and runs back inside the station.
‘Do you know I think we’re in trouble?’ Eva says as she unzips Chiyoko’s skirt. It brushes down the side of her legs onto the ground, and Chiyoko is now fully nude and panting as the oncoming 18:21 starts to make the rails sing.
‘I won’t know how to explain this.’
‘So don’t,’ the woman says, and puts Chiyoko’s clitoris in between her lips.
On the platform, the air is a confusion of a train juggernauting down the tracks, and gasps, and the running boots of the British Transport Police. Faces press against the yellow-lit glass of the carriages. Some of them look through Chiyoko. Some see the pair in the shadows as a coloured blur like an ink blot test. But at that moment, Eva grabs Chiyoko’s clothes from the floor and runs into the light.
‘Hey!’
And in that moment, the doors shunt open with all their eyes, while the police surge onto the platform, and the screaming pedestrian points. Running Chiyoko is naked in front of the CCTV. But on that moment, time just stops.
Dust particles that are caught in the strip-lighting sit in the air, like bubbles set in carbonated water. People stay standing upright when they lean forward mid-step. And everyone is a statue. But Chiyoko and Eva.
Two feet from a policeman in a fluorescent yellow jacket, Eva turns around, and drops the clothes onto the floor.
‘Lets fuck right here.’
When she speaks her top lip does not move, but her anatomy jolts as she swift strips in front of naked Chiyoko.
‘They’re stopped?’
‘Yes so they are. Now come here,’ and their faces collide.
The shower-burst of electrified-lust spreads through the inside of their mouths. The bright white station light passes between their limbs, and,
lying on a mat of office wear, they are inside each other with their fingers. Beckoning the feeling. Calling it closer.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to.’
She kisses Chiyoko. Eva tastes a little like milk chocolate.
‘Are you real?’
The next kiss is short, one-sided.
‘Yes I’m real.’
And the whole of Chiyoko’s neck is smoother than glass. Her hair smells of coconut. The grey eyes of the onlookers are watching the thin air down the platform, and their muscle tone seems as if it is waiting for someone to press play. Almost at any moment, they could come back to finger-pointing life.
‘Are you, different, then,’ she pauses, ‘Somehow?’
‘Oh I’m different,’ she says, ‘I’m unusual, and I’m rare, and I know how to make the most of my time with someone I think is beautiful.’
Chiyoko’s breaths are short, rushed huffs. Their fingers slide in, and pull free like firing valves.
Then Eva adds, ‘Time doesn’t matter when you’re with a pretty girl.’
The women kiss.
‘It’s Chiyoko, you know. Akita.’
‘I like it. I lived with someone called Chiyoko once. We weren’t. We were boarders. But well, it’s nice to meet you.’
They pass the same air between them. For a while, it is as if each can only hear their own murmurs, and every line on their foreheads is a brushstroke dipped in joy, coated in agony. Eva’s tongue shafts the girl so she cannot tell what is saliva and what is Chiyoko, and their bodies are wrapped around each other’s mouths. The women’s tongues give all the firmness of muscle with all the velveteen feel of a stream of water. Then Chiyoko flick-rubs Laura like a washboard. As a dew of sweat settles and starts to make their skins shine, Eva echoes through the station and through the freeze-frame people on pause. And in the orgasm, she lifts her behind up off the ground in six small thrusts. The time that passes in this in-between world could be hours. It could be forever, and only five minutes. During it all, both of them peak, but Eva kisses Chiyoko until the moment is over.
Two naked women lie together on Southbound Platform B.
‘How? Just how?’
‘How to make the time stop? They have that phrase – don’t they? It’s not the years in your life, it’s the life -’
Their lips strike when Chiyoko kisses her.
Eva continues, ‘When I saw, well, I think something clicked for me when I saw you passing the time.’
There is the whole of Eva to absorb, but Chiyoko studies the green of her eyes. The colours change in her irises like timbers in a forest. Their wet breasts push into each other.
‘Why wouldn’t you tell me your name?’
Her Japanese accent is more pronounced now.
‘Was it the whole anonymity thing, for you?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me why, then?’
‘Sometimes it’s nice just to be two people. You know, without the crap. Your name. Where you work. What exactly it is that your father does or doesn’t have to do with Finance.’
‘I’m not interested in your father.’
Eva laughs. Chiyoko’s right hand strokes her tanned upper arm.
‘Sorry. People can do and say disappointing things when they know the whole of you. I just wanted a moment.’
Chiyoko smiles. The air smells of sex. It is a good scent. It is a confident scent.
‘What does your father do?’
Eva kisses her small, playful hand.
‘My surname’s Clarence.’
‘That’s a start.’
After another minute, they stand up and the warmth of their clothes returns. The women fix their crushed hair. Then Eva puts one of the policemen’s caps onto the end of the pedestrian’s index finger, and they squeeze through the human mass to sit on seats by a carriage window. Chiyoko puts her right calf between Eva’s.
Time returns, and the mad swarm of ants at the station clears. The shrieking commuter apologises to the officers, and she sees the 18:21 disappear through the wide black tunnel. With a crossed brow, the woman sits on the hard stainless steel bench. She waits with her hands beneath her thighs.
Stroking The Tree
by Toni Sands
Cally woke, writhing and wet. It was still dark. She reached out for Marcus, groaned then rolled on to cool emptiness. Of course, he was still in London, returning tomorrow for the weekend. And she was wild with wanting: wild for the magnificent cock so nearly hers in the dream so abruptly ended, catapulting her into what she knew would be frustrated insomnia. Unless she did something about it.
She sat up, wrenched open her bedside cabinet drawer and peeled the demure velvet jacket from her dildo. She tore off her black nightgown and lay back, glass phallus poised against her pussy. No need of lube. She was more than ready to be fucked by Dios, drop-dead-gorgeous black guy and possessor of the tempting penis she’d seen in her dream. Did virtual sex equate to cheating on her husband? She was in too much hurry to bother.
Closing her eyes, Cally eased the dildo, squeezing it inside her until she felt comfortable around its smooth hardness. She teased herself, tightening her muscles; rhythmically moving the toy out then in again. She wanted more but, panting, she slid the dildo so it focused on her clitoris, always rather precocious. Rubbing gently at first, her movements intensified until the sweet vibes washed over her. She felt as though she was being bathed in honey. But tonight that wasn’t enough. She wanted it. She wanted it rough and hard and she wanted it right now. She needed the pure physical release of a hard fuck. And there was only one way to simulate it.
She moved the dildo full on, concentrating on a deep regular rhythm while she lay, legs squeezed together, anticipating the first spasm. It took one more – then two more – and a final fourth to send her hurtling into orgasm. ‘Nice,’ she whispered to the darkness. ‘Oh, yes, Dios. Very nice. More now! Fuck me more now, big guy.’
The dildo was moving virtually on its own, as if powered by some invisible hand – as if the gorgeous Dios of her dreams was in bed with her. Now Cally spread her legs, moving her hands to cup her breasts. Her fingers found her nipples. Began coaxing them.
‘Nice,’ she repeated. She was moving her hips … inching her warm wet pussy lips around the relentless glass as it purred on and on. How could this be? The thing wasn’t battery-driven. And her hands were usefully employed, titillating her breasts, making her nipples stand out like full-blown raspberries. Did it matter? Not when she was making that delicious climb again. This was maybe the best moment: beginning the ride to orgasm – waiting for her body to submit. Knowing she could take her time and make it happen.
‘Oh my God, Dios. Fuck me harder. Go on. Come in me. I want to feel you come inside me.’ She was beyond stopping now. Even if the smoke alarm went off – even if Marcus turned up unexpectedly and stood in the doorway watching – no way could she stop. Sadly, he’d probably back off and leave her to it.
Yes. Oh yes. Nearly! Almost there. Oh God … Oh my God, Dios. I’m coming now. Your beautiful, hard cock inside my cunt … oh God. Now ….Cally turned on her side, curling up as ecstasy transported her somewhere high outside of herself. The wall of flames splintered into a thousand tiny images – zigzagging lights, stars and flashes dipping and dancing all around until she lay in a pink haze. It was just as if Dios’s fabulous penis had actually filled her. Instead of the dildo that helped her achieve pleasurable climaxes when Marcus was absorbed by his computer or night-stopping at his brother’s city pad. She might have been furious about her dream ending in frustration but she’d made up for it since.
Next morning, Cally showered and dressed in black T-shirt and trousers; as always the total professional even though she taught online and never came face to face with her students. But she had difficulty putting the previous night from her mind – had to force herself to concentrate on Shakespeare’s syntax rather than the godlike Dios’s powerful build and dark chocolate skin. Whe
n she reached the point where one of Romeo and Juliet’s characters draws his sword and says “My naked weapon is out,” the image of Dios’s erect weapon filled her mind and melted her insides.
It was all she could do to remain in control. As soon as she’d logged off she rushed upstairs to the bedroom and dragged off her trousers. Throwing herself on the bed, she slid her knickers down her legs, desperate for gratification.
Later, sipping coffee after her second online class, she decided she must be missing Marcus more than she’d imagined. Somehow, her solitary session hadn’t satisfied her at all. If anything, she felt more isolated.
When her husband arrived at 8 p.m. carrying a bottle of Sancerre and a huge bunch of roses, Cally’s kiss was lingering.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Have you missed me then, darling?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘We could open the wine and take it upstairs.’ As usual, he sounded hesitant. As if they were contemplating something really naughty.
‘Don’t you want supper?’
‘Will it keep?’
They were always so polite and thoughtful with one another. How could she possibly explain the strength of her need for him? Confess the things she imagined other couples doing together. Marcus was so squeaky-clean. If only he’d grab her hand and place it on his erection – tell her he couldn’t wait any longer. If only he’d say, “I want to fuck your brains out. Supper can wait!”
Cally led him upstairs by the hand.
She knew she wasn’t about to get much in the way of foreplay, and, as so often happened, she was left dangling. So close she could have wept. She squeezed her eyelids tight and willed the zigzags to take over. But Marcus’s thrusts became wilder, faster and shorter, as he brought himself to climax. She had to pretend again. Something she was rather good at. Marcus didn’t even notice. He kissed her then rolled off and headed for the bathroom, humming a pop song.
He was still in an extraordinarily good mood when they sat down to supper. ‘Remember Richard? I introduced you at the last company shindig?’
