Southern Spirits

by Edie Bingham

  That was all it took. Fireworks exploded behind her closed eyelids and she yelped out as a new sensation raced through her body. She rode the wave of passion for as long as she could until, finally, she was spent, and her body demanded relief of a different sort. Easing her hands away from her sex, she dropped and straightened out her legs, aware of how wet she felt between her thighs and hoping, albeit with little power, that she didn’t leave any patches on the sheets. Her vibrator still buzzed in her weakened grip and she feebly switched it off, promising herself a moment of rest before straightening and cleaning herself up. Just a moment . . .

  4

  In another part of the train, Faye Scott was lying down on a bed, watching the scene unfold via hidden cameras and microphones onto a PC screen, before it haemorrhaged into static and white sound once more. She cursed again, but never took her hand out of her briefs, her dress rucked up to her waist, feeling the garters holding up her stockings tighten as she closed her eyes and writhed. Damn, the Spanish woman was hot . . .

  The office was a clutter of boxes and equipment, with the computer workstation and swivel chair sitting beside an old-fashioned roll-top desk and matching chair, beneath a well-marked railway route map of the Southern States. It was cramped, especially as there was also a low single bed, a Spartan frame with a thin pillow. But it served its purpose, and from here, she could watch and listen to nearly every point on the train.

  She started as she heard someone work the office door lock. Seconds later, Jack Wheeler entered. ‘A little early to be indulging, isn’t it, my dear?’

  ‘Fuck you. I’m entitled.’

  ‘You should be welcoming the new guests.’

  ‘Like who, Old Man Newholme? That black chick? The Olivers? Motley bunch this time.’

  ‘They’re not our only passengers.’ He slipped out of his jacket, hung it up and loosened his tie. ‘And what about Mr Ames? You obviously had your eye on him.’

  Faye made a purring sound of agreement, her fingers stroking her outer lips. ‘I came back here when he and his little spic piece went to their room.’

  ‘Please, let’s not add racism to your many, many faults.’

  ‘Then he left her, and she was at it on her own.’

  ‘Oh?’ He sat down, checked the settings. ‘Damn it, Belle.’

  Faye rolled her eyes. ‘Play it back, Jack.’

  He tapped away at the keyboard, calling up the digital replay of the recording, and sat back, watching with obvious interest. ‘You’re right. She wrote she was an accountant. Love those types, all strait-laced during the day, wild fuckers at night.’ He reached into the desk drawer and withdrew his Jack Daniels, then drank from the bottle. ‘I’m sick of champagne. All bubbly shit.’

  ‘You’re a crabby bastard today.’

  ‘To employ your own eloquent phrase, “Fuck you, I’m entitled.”’ He took another swig still watching Cat. At a sound from Faye, he added, ‘Aren’t you capable of controlling your own urges for even a little while?’

  She smiled, but never took her eyes off Cat’s image either, finding herself adopting the same position on the bed. ‘If you were a real man, you wouldn’t let me get to the point where I needed to satisfy my own urges.’

  He grunted, recognised the taunt for what it really was, and rose. He stood over her at her right side, watching the gentle motion of the hand beneath the briefs. ‘You annoy the hell out of me. I should –’

  ‘You won’t do shit,’ she grunted, her face flushed as her hand changed rhythm slightly. ‘You’re a weak fish, a limp noodle –’

  Wheeler was upon her, taking her hands from her briefs and forcing them into the leather cuffs fitted to the wall behind her, straddling her right thigh as she struggled and snarled. ‘Get off me, you fucking pig! Scumbag! Faggot!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he replied calmly, his free hand reaching down between her legs. He touched her through her briefs and sharply slapped the inner thigh of her other leg when she continued to move, before returning to her sex, ripping at her silk briefs to touch her pussy, even as he began undoing his trousers – while still watching Cat’s recording.

  Unoffended, Faye’s eyes followed his, as they fucked and watched.

  Ben Oliver could barely hold onto the clothes he carried from the open suitcase to the drawers. ‘Did you see the lines on her? Beautiful example of the Imperial III. Remember riding one as a boy.’

  ‘I know,’ Hannah Oliver agreed. ‘So powerful and sleek. That GM D-78 engine runs through you like a . . .’ She trailed off, stretched out as she was on the plush bed, but then sat up on her elbows, her face sobering as she looked at her husband. ‘Ben . . . we’re going to be OK, aren’t we?’

  He swallowed, knowing what she meant. It had been a rough year, the company laying him off, being unable to find successive employment, both of them forced to survive on what she earned behind the bar, and keeping the wolves and their final notices at the door. His grandmother’s favourite phrase may have been ‘The truly rich are those enjoy what they have’, but for Hannah and Ben what they had nowadays was precious little. It was perhaps a terrible mistake to spend what savings they had on a weekend on the Silver Belle, but it was so welcome to get away from their house and their problems.

  But the problems seemed to have followed them like cabooses.

  He drew close, stroked her face. ‘We’ll be fine. We’ll be back on our feet before you know it.’ He pushed down the sensible part of him, the one that saw the mounting debts which didn’t go away, and dropped to her lips to kiss her, determined to at least make this weekend an unforgettable one.

  Tara was sitting on the edge of the bed, unbuckling her black leather ankle boots, grinning widely to herself. It was incredible! The energies onboard, thick, flowing like blood through veins! She’d never felt such a concentrated source before!

  And the people she’d met: that sad Mr Newholme, the odious Mr Kolchak, the animated Mr and Mrs Oliver, and that new couple, with their secrets and dances . . .

  She needed to strip off, shake off the distracting impressions she received from wearing fabrics, even ones made from natural fibres. She rose to her feet and undid her jeans, wriggling out of them even as her thumbs slipped into the waistband of her white panties and made them follow. Lifting her short brown legs from the clothing at her feet, she pulled her T-shirt over her head and cast it beside her. Then she lay back and ran her hands briskly over herself. A vibration ran through her, as if the train had an extra engine with a frequency aligned with hers.

  She was going to enjoy being onboard.

  Richard Newholme took his time unpacking. He was never in any hurry, feeling no need to join in any of the carnal activities. He would be content to spend most of his time in his private berth – with his lover . . . He sat down, closed his eyes and relaxed, waiting for her . . .

  . . . ‘Ten minutes to Willoughby. Ten minutes to Willoughby.’

  The conductor’s voice barely carried through the berth door, announcing the train’s final stop.

  Their final stop too. There wasn’t much time.

  Enrique was in Val’s arms, looking so handsome in his army uniform, his smooth, sunburnt skin glistening with youth and excitement.

  The room they’d found was bare, the single bed bereft of sheets or pillows, the drawn shutters letting only a few strands of sunlight in, and the air smelt of disinfectant. None of which meant anything to her as she pulled Enrique into an almost feral kiss, their lips grinding, parting, their tongues meeting, Enrique’s shock at her boldness quickly melted first into acceptance, then boiled into a desire that matched her own. His cap fell off his head, ignored. He pushed her back against the wall, then his hands moved over her hips, around to her back, touching her through her navy-blue Sunday best dress, the erection in his trousers pressing against her side. Blindly she reached down between him to touch him.

  She wanted him to know, clearly, that she would be doing more to send him off for two years to an army base in Germany th
an just kiss him. She knew she could get pregnant, but didn’t rightly care. Everyone would know it was Enrique’s anyway; they had been together since they were nine, half a lifetime ago, and they’d be married once his Selective Service finished.

  Still kissing her, Enrique reached up between them, squeezed and stroked her aching breasts until they felt as if they would pop out of her underwear. Her head spinning, Val reached behind her and fumbled with the buttons to her dress, moaning into his mouth to give her a moment to manage this and not waste any more time. He obliged, never drawing away from her as she slipped her dress off her shoulders and wiggled it to her feet, leaving her in her all-constricting bra, slip, panties, stockings and shoes.

  She felt herself blush seven shades. Though Enrique had seen her in the flesh when they’d been skinny-dipping in the lake behind their houses, this was different. And Daddy was nearby, sitting in the next carriage, waiting for her to return from her alleged trip to the lavatory. Damn him. Damn him for accompanying Enrique and her to Willoughby to see him off, and not giving them one final moment together alone. If they hadn’t found this empty berth . . .

  ‘Val,’ he breathed, reaching up to touch her charm, the round brass charm that had been in her mother’s family for generations. She hoped he wasn’t going to waste time asking her to remove it.

  Then his touch dropped, as if drained by the power of the charm, to her bared midriff, for a moment, slowly and delicately. He gasped, his breath quickening as his lips returned to hers, and his hand lingered, then descended between her legs, touching her through her panties.

  Oh sweet God, it was so intense . . . she pushed against his fingers, reminded of those few furtive times when she had guiltily touched herself down there. This was far more immoral.

  And it would get even more immoral in the next few minutes, if she had her way. The Christian discipline her father had imprinted on her warned of damnation for acts like this.

  But she also knew, with equal fervent resolve, that she could live a long regretful life if something happened to him and she didn’t take this chance, here and now. He was the only thing that gave her life meaning, the only thing to make her get up in the morning.

  To want him. So much.

  Val drew down her panties, keeping his eyes on hers so as not to exacerbate her modesty, not needing to prompt Enrique now to be bold and touch her, to go further than they ever dared in the past. He cupped her mound, feeling her hairs press into his palm as his middle finger settled into her groove, feeling how wet she was at her entrance. A moment’s gathering of more courage, and she pushed herself down on him, letting him pierce her, enter her with his finger.

  She gasped and clung to him, unbelieving of the sensations it produced, and she shamelessly wanted more, grinding against him, arching her head to one side to let him kiss and suckle on her neck, uncaring if he left marks. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, reached inside and grasped him, drew him out and stroked his hard length. Oh Lord, Val wanted to do this for hours, days, take time to explore each other fully, completely.

  But they couldn’t!

  Driven by hunger as well as desperation, Val pulled back from his kisses, gasping, ‘Bed . . . bed . . .’

  Enrique grunted, understanding, then gently released her as they made their way to the bare bed. Val lay back, keeping her eyes on Enrique’s to avoid further bursts of modesty as she spread her legs beneath him.

  Enrique smiled, slipping out of his shoes, his trousers and underwear, and then positioned himself above her and lowered himself until his shaft pressed at her sex. Val lifted her rear, opening her flesh to the thick hardness, the bristly hair at his groin rubbing against her inflamed wetness. He slid in, thankfully slowly, filling her up, more and more, pushing overpowering sensations from her, with none of the pain she’d heard would come from her first time. Val let her eyes roll in the back of her head and her mouth open in a staggered gasp, her fingers digging into his biceps.

  They lay joined together, looking into each other’s eyes with such wonder, such lust and disbelief.

  And then Enrique began thrusting into her, supporting her legs. She felt every inch of him, every contour as he plunged deep into her, ripples of delight running across her skin like water. He moaned, sounding lost to the pleasure, and began withdrawing slowly until only a part of him was inside Val, before sliding back in again. It was exquisite.

  Her hands on his shoulders now, her excitement building, she slapped him lightly. ‘Faster! N– No time now –’

  Enrique, breathing more rapidly, quickened his rhythm to an urgent gallop.

  Suddenly, outside the door, she heard her papa. ‘Valentina? Where are you, girl?’

  Enrique looked to the door, his pace slowing, but Val slapped his shoulder again, her voice low. ‘Never mind him! Keep going!’

  He pumped into her with abandon; she felt herself on the edge, wanting to feel those thunderclaps of pleasure inside her, wanting to feel it because of this man. He gave a strangled cry, spurring her on, her cries mingling with his as she came, her back arching beneath him, her legs wrapping around him, clinging to him fiercely, the sweat making her stick to her new lover . . .

  . . . Cat sat up sharply, confused, unsure of where she was, sweat beading down her face. Then her mind focused as she glanced about the room, then at herself – lying there with her bra and shirt off, her jeans and thong around her knees, her vibrator beside her.

  There was a knock at the door. Adolescent memories of being caught in similar situations resurfaced as she quickly returned her vibrator to her bag, slipped back into her T-shirt and pulled up her clothes, thankful that Nathan had kept his promise to knock before using the key. ‘Wait, goddammit!’

  Dios, she thought her scent was thick in the close confines of the berth.

  Her head spun as she made her unsteady way to the door, ignoring the welcome hot glow between her legs. Damn, that dream was so vivid . . . She was blushing again as she worked the door lock with trembling fingers. ‘You can come in now.’

  However, the man who stood there, Jack Wheeler, remained where he was, smiling. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’d better not.’

  Cat stiffened, forcing down her ardent feelings. ‘Can I help you, Mr Wheeler?’

  Wheeler folded his hands behind him, letting his eyes seem to do all the work. ‘I wanted to invite you, and Mr Ames, of course, to my table for a late dinner. Most of the other passengers have already eaten, but I always wait until the final ones have boarded.’

  She saw his eyes flash down, for a second, and she realised her nipples were peaking beneath her T-shirt. Embarrassed but also amused, she leant against the doorframe. ‘Gracias. And what did we do to earn this honour?’

  Wheeler leant back on the opposite side, mimicking, perhaps unconsciously, her own stance. ‘In your case, the honour would be mine.’

  Cat smiled back. ‘Me? I’m just an ordinary accountant.’

  ‘One who happens to have boarded a very extraordinary train, for what I hope will be a very special weekend for you. In fact,’ he continued, shifting in place and looking as if he could read her mind, ‘I believe you’ve been enjoying yourself already.’ He nodded his head towards the bed, and his voice grew more confidential. ‘I’ll bet every dollar in my safe you’ve just experienced a refreshing rest. Belle possesses a special somniferous cadence that no one can resist, a lullaby of wheels on rails that takes you places you’ve never been before.’

  Cat let her arms wrap around herself, lifting up her breasts slightly and distracting him momentarily. ‘One should expect a train to take you places, Mr Wheeler. As it is, though, you’re right. It was very restful.’

  ‘Call me Jack.’

  ‘You come here for anything in particular, “Jack”?’

  Cat and Wheeler turned as one to the approach of a wary-looking Nathan.

  Wheeler made a conscious move out of the doorway and back into the corridor. ‘Yes, Mr Ames. I came to extend an inv
itation to dinner at my table tonight.’

  Nathan nodded at this, moving closer and slipping an arm around Cat’s waist. ‘Much obliged. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to spend some time with my woman before then, OK?’

  Cat smiled, leaning into Nathan. ‘I’m sure you understand . . .’

  Wheeler smiled back as he stepped away. ‘Of course. See you both in an hour.’

  Cat kept up her smile as she playfully drew Nathan into the berth, moving up as if to kiss him, but waiting until the door closed before pushing him away. ‘You were rude out there, pajiero.’

  Nathan grunted, before moving to the wardrobe, lifting up his suitcase and opening it on the table. ‘It was for Wheeler’s benefit.’ His eyes fixed on the bed.

  ‘And you’d act that way if we were going together, then?’ Cat followed his gaze, saw her open toilet kit and reached for it, zipping up the bag and sticking it under her arm as she retrieved and pocketed her bra. ‘Well, try not to get too protective, he has an interest in me.’

  Nathan started unfolding and hanging up his shirts and trousers. ‘That’s obvious. But you’re still new to fieldwork. You need back-up.’

  ‘Not to keep a man’s attention, pajiero. We’re here to get information on Wheeler and his operations, after all. And if you want to make yourself useful, how about getting to know his partner Faye?’

  ‘If you want. But I’ll be thinking of you.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve called Gordy?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ She reached into her pocket, withdrew and unlocked her mobile, hit the correct speed dial then, after a second’s thought, put it on loudspeaker and tossed it to the bed between Nathan and her. ‘You talk to him. I’m going for a wash.’

  Before Nathan could say anything further, the ringing was replaced by a young and ebullient young man’s voice. ‘Ah, Agent Montoya. I know you couldn’t bear to go long without calling me.’