by Edie Bingham
Cat sat in a different place from the night before, at a collection of leather chairs around a glass coffee table, as Tara and the Olivers sat opposite. She relayed her accounts to date, glad to be able to open up to someone unlikely to judge her.
And when she was done, she looked to the younger woman. ‘You were right, I have questions. Firstly, am I going loco?’
Tara smiled. ‘Not at all. In fact, I commend your strength in dealing with these unprecedented experiences as well as you have. You’ve never been comfortable with matters beyond the concrete, have you?’
Cat pursed her lips, not certain why she felt so open with the girl, but taking advantage of it nevertheless. ‘Only when the answers never satisfied me. My paternal grandfather used to smack my hand whenever he took me to church and I wouldn’t stop asking questions that weren’t getting any answers.’
‘That’s awful,’ Hannah noted, appalled. ‘Punishing a child for curiosity.’
‘For stubbornness,’ Cat conceded with a wry smile. ‘And it outlasted Grandpa.’ Back to Tara, she asked, ‘These hotspots, are they ghosts possessing us, like Wheeler says?’
‘No. These are not multiple hauntings, or loa spirits mounting devotees during voodoo ceremonies. These are psychometric echoes.’ At Cat’s expression, she elaborated: ‘Think of them as psychic fingerprints, “vibes”, recordings of thoughts and events left on objects and in places, by people at moments of emotional intensity, such as sex or fear. And other people with suitable psychic attunements or states can “read” these. But they’re just fragments of energy, with no more intrinsic intelligence than characters in a movie.’
‘And that’s what’s happening on this train?’
Tara nodded, barely able to contain her own excitement. ‘I’ve been a middle-aged woman in 1976 having sex with Chinese twins, and a bridegroom in 1963.’ She grinned with amazement. ‘Belle contains the most potent collection of psychometric energy spots I’ve ever encountered. Her own energy seems to be amplifying the hotspots to incredible degrees.’
‘“Her”? Then you’re with Wheeler, in thinking that this train’s . . . alive?’
Tara seemed to consider her reply before answering. ‘Let’s just say I believe that something more than the man in the locomotive cab is driving her. There’s a definite consciousness present, manifesting itself for a reason – and you’re being targeted with Valentina’s memories for a purpose. I don’t know more yet, but –’ she leant forwards ‘– I know you were experimenting with Wheeler on deliberately sharing a vision. While you were there, did you manage to gain control?’
‘Control? That’s possible?’
‘Oh yes. Have you ever heard of lucid dreaming? It’s when someone in a dream is aware of being in a dream, and with this awareness can control elements within it. It’s an established skill that psychiatrists teach to patients suffering from recurring nightmares. We can use it to control the visions we receive from Belle onboard, as they operate on the same hypnagogic level as dreams. Further, because the visions originate externally, two or more people involved in the same vision can be aware of each other.’
‘Tara’s already shown us how,’ Ben informed her, smiling. ‘It was like nothing we’ve ever experienced before.’
Tara smiled again. ‘Belle likes them. I know of a place or two you might not have visited. We can both enter a mental state receptive to the visions, and I can guide you into maintaining lucidity.’
The suggestion intrigued Cat, especially without Jack Wheeler around to muddy up the proverbial waters. ‘Why are you doing this?’
The black woman sat back again, looked up and about her, seeing things only she could. ‘I’ve had the gifts all my life, perceiving things others didn’t. As a result, I’ve always felt out of place, like I didn’t belong anywhere. Until I got here. I feel at home. And something tells me that helping you and your partner will help me stay here.’
Cat considered her answer; she certainly trusted Tara more than Wheeler. Still . . . ‘Jack said something about needing to be sexually aroused to experience the visions.’
Tara blushed now. ‘Well, it helps. Magic rituals involving sex are among the most primal and powerful. But I think we can reach the required levels of perception through simple relaxation.’ She looked to the Olivers. ‘If anything goes wrong, you can wake us from it.’
Hannah grinned, presenting a mock salute. ‘Here to serve.’
Cat considered the proposal. Tara seemed sincere enough in her offer to help Cat understand – and not try to get in her panties.
Not that the thought was entirely execrable to Cat. She was attractive.
Tara suddenly grinned, as if she’d heard her.
Puta.
Wheeler cursed again, knocking some files off his desk as he stared with impotent frustration at the PC screen. He’d been able to tune into the group on the observation deck, but not pick up any sound. Now they’d moved to the spa and looked ready to strip off and enter the sauna, where there was a hotspot – and a luscious little hotspot it was – but it had proved impractical to install cameras or microphones in there. At least the hotspot in there didn’t involve Valentina, so Cat couldn’t learn any more without him.
What was Tara Gilbrand about? He’d looked into her background, grew interested in her family’s wealth and influence, but then grew uneasy about her purported psychic experience. Perhaps he should have focused on her instead of Cat.
Belle, what are you doing?
The spa was an area in one carriage with some token exercise equipment, where passengers could work up a different type of sweat than they might otherwise expect. But it was the nearby sauna that Tara had indicated to Cat and, as they stood in an adjacent changing area, and the younger woman had begun undressing, placing her clothes in a storage box provided, she noted, ‘Everyone seems to be taking siestas at the moment, so we’re alone.’
Cat glanced around anyway, before following Tara and the Olivers in stripping down. Her trust hadn’t yet wavered, but she remained self-conscious. Still, after a moment, she slipped out of her underwear and quickly wrapped one of the supplied thick white cotton towels around herself, grunting as she noted how tenuous the cover was on her.
A problem that didn’t seem to bother the seemingly uninhibited Tara, who was standing there naked, tying her hair up. ‘This carriage used to be a boxcar. It was interesting to see . . .’ Then she paused, slipping a towel around her. ‘But I’d better not say anything further, in case you think I might influence what you experience.’
‘Gracias.’ Cat followed the trio into the sauna, a relatively small enclosure that could comfortably hold a dozen seated on the benches built into the walls. Slatted beech wood panelling ran from floor to ceiling, and steam emerged from between the slats, rising and collecting like, well, like ghosts. The effects of the heat were instant on Cat, and her lungs seemed to open up that much more even as sweat seemed to appear magically on her skin. ‘What now?’
Tara slowly paced around, breathing in deeply, as Ben and Hannah sat opposite them, watching and staying quiet. ‘Now, you relax. I know it’s not easy for a woman like you to do that, even for a while. But you can – once you stop trying.’ She indicated the bench on the far wall. ‘How about lying down? A massage might help.’
After a moment, Cat acquiesced and lay face down with her head resting on her arms, adjusting her towel to maintain her modesty, such as it was.
Seconds later, she felt the woman’s touch on her feet, using her thumbs and forefingers to work at her soles, her toes, before working her way along Cat’s heels and ankles, demonstrating a strong, expert grip. And as she massaged, she spoke in steady, reassuring tones. ‘Nothing will harm you here. As you relax, your breathing, your pulse will slow down.’ Her fingers made crescent motions over the backs of Cat’s legs, a repetitive pressure that provided the proper amount of force and seemed to sap the strength from her muscles. ‘Your mind is beginning to rest now, to set aside the conscious and dr
ift into higher areas.’
And, as if in physical illustration, Tara’s hands moved up along Cat’s thighs, to just below the level of her towel. An excitement shot through Cat, temporarily eclipsing her descent into relaxation, and she wished she could find the strength to raise a hand and loosen her towel.
Tara, however, still demonstrating her uncanny powers of perception, did it for her, just enough to expose Cat’s back but not her buttocks, allowing her hands to work their magic on her shoulders and along either side of her spine. ‘Visions, memories that are not your own, will be offered to you. Accept them, wear them and experience them. But you will be aware that you are in a vision. You will see something of yours that should not be there. This will be your reminder of who you are, a reminder that you can control what you are experiencing, and let it stop and continue as you please.’
Cat’s eyelids felt heavy, and her perceptions did indeed drift, as she noted the beads of sweat running across her forehead, and the fullness of her breasts, how her nipples were hardening against the thick white cotton between her body and the bench. She felt wet – yes, inside as well as outside. More aware now, she could see her surroundings shift, expand, the walls of the sauna extending outwards to accommodate the crates against the walls and the large silver car on the platform in the centre of the boxcar, steam wisping around it like snakes . . .
* * *
. . . Suddenly, some of the water splashed onto Priscilla’s skirt. She stepped back, glaring at the cause of the spill. ‘Clumsy woman!’
Kerry stopped in place, the large yellow sponge in her hand dripping water and suds to the floor. ‘Sorry, Miss O’Neill.’
Priscilla pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘Yes, you should be.’ Not that she was as mad as she made out; it was just soapy water, and on what was hardly the most expensive outfit in Priscilla’s considerable wardrobe. However, she had a persona to maintain.
‘Yes, Miss O’Neill.’ Kerry was medium tall, annoyingly skinny, with long blonde hair tied back and usually tucked under a grey chauffeur’s cap, part of a man’s outfit that Daddy preferred on her. Her jacket hung over a nearby crate with her tie, and she had the sleeves of her white dress shirt rolled up as she focused on her current task, cleaning her employer’s latest toy: one of the new DeLoreans, a futuristic-looking silver sports car with a low body and gull-wing doors. Priscilla thought it gaudy in the extreme, but her father was a man with far more money than sense, and had to be one of the first in America to own one. Priscilla did not share her father’s tastes.
At least, not in cars.
And he had insisted that his new ‘chauffeur’ (as if anyone believed that) Kerry collect it personally from the New York docks and accompany it across country to California, and clean it twice a day, whether it needed cleaning or not. It was Priscilla who had insisted on accompanying Kerry, an insistence that had made her father chuckle. He joked about apparent jealousy on Priscilla’s part, jealousy regarding the attention he was giving Kerry.
Priscilla let him think whatever he wanted.
She stood in the cramped confines of the boxcar, watching Daddy’s other new toy give the DeLorean another good clean, the white silk of the woman’s shirt picking up droplets of water, and offering more give than the grey trousers, which pulled tight over the woman’s slim buttocks whenever she bent forwards.
Priscilla felt a familiar, welcome warmth growing, with sweat prickling the tops of her breasts and under her arms, a heat caused by more than the interior of the boxcar.
It was a heat she saw reflected in Kerry’s eyes too, and in those full red lips, whenever the other woman looked over at Priscilla.
For a while, there was only the background clack-clack of the train wheels on the tracks as they raced through Illinois, the tinny sounds of Huey Lewis’s latest on Kerry’s portable radio and the slosh of soapy water in the bucket, some of it splashing onto Kerry’s trouser legs now. She seemed to disregard it.
Priscilla wouldn’t, however. ‘Must you be so sloppy? You represent my father’s organisation! How would it appear if someone saw his personal chauffer looking dishevelled?’ Inwardly, Priscilla laughed at the absurdity of her question; Daddy published some of the filthiest men’s magazines on the market.
‘Sorry, Miss O’Neill.’ Kerry continued working, still playing the demure type. ‘But your father wanted his new car kept clean. I don’t know what else I can do.’
‘Well, I do. Take off your clothes.’
Kerry stopped and looked over at her, that affected look of innocence of hers making Priscilla’s pussy twitch. ‘T– Take off my clothes? In front of you? But I . . . I couldn’t.’
‘Why not? I know you do it for my father, your employer. And in his absence, I’m your employer. Isn’t that right?’
Kerry swallowed, wide-eyed. ‘I . . . I guess so.’
‘Fine then: strip.’
Kerry stared at her a moment longer, then finally nodded in surrender. She unbuttoned her shirt to reveal a snow– white spaghetti-strap bikini top, straining to contain large, round, tanned breasts, above a flat stomach. She cast the shirt to join her other clothes, kicked off her shoes and socks, and then sent her trousers following. A tiny white bikini bottom cupped neat, taut buttocks and topped long, muscular legs.
Kerry stood there, coyly dropping her gaze. ‘Will this be satisfactory, Miss O’Neill?’
Priscilla suppressed the expected pang of jealousy at the fitness of the other woman’s body, preferring to relish the lust she’d felt for it since she’d first seen it, months ago. Outwardly, though, she nodded curtly and replied, ‘Get back to work.’
‘Yes, Miss O’Neill.’
Priscilla steadied herself, feeling the growing heat between her legs as she watched Kerry bend over for the bucket and sponge, the triangle of cotton of her bikini bottoms pulling taut across her tanned buttocks, and the swell of her breasts pressing into her top. She swung her hips as she walked about the car, now reaching for a bucket of clean water for rinsing, the metal clasps holding the bikini strips at her hips and breasts looking so flimsy. One quick snap . . .
It made Priscilla, clad in her charcoal power-dressing suit, feel overdressed, and so far removed from the flimsy cotton of her panties, now riding up into her aroused sex to embrace and tease it. ‘You like working for my father, don’t you?’
‘He’s very good to me, Miss O’Neill.’
A smile curled Priscilla’s lips. ‘I’m sure. He likes dirty sluts like you.’
Kerry stopped in her tracks, her demeanour changing from supplicant servant to something stronger, more defiant. She strode around the car towards Priscilla. ‘Listen up, you: no one calls me that. Not your father. And certainly not his spoilt little bitch of a daughter.’
Priscilla swallowed, her breath coming short and her legs growing unsteady as Kerry stood tall before her, licking her lips, playing along with this familiar but still enticing game of theirs. Priscilla’s voice broke. ‘Y– You can’t talk to me like that.’
‘I can do anything I want.’ She grabbed Priscilla by the lapels of her jacket. ‘I can have anything I want. Or anyone.’ She pulled her into a hot, hard kiss, their lips parting and their tongues thick and hot around each other, Kerry being as rough and as dominant as Priscilla craved.
Kerry leant against the side of the car, still dragging Priscilla along, pulling the young woman down to her breasts. ‘Kiss them. Worship them.’
Priscilla obeyed, plunging into the swelling curves of the cleavage, tasting salty sweat as her hands moved up to unhook the top, freeing the breasts before clamping her mouth over one of Kerry’s nipples. The flesh filled her mouth, and Priscilla licked and sucked greedily.
‘Ooh,’ Kerry cooed. ‘It seems you’re the dirty slut here, aren’t you?’
Priscilla moaned into the flesh, her own nipples aching in her clothes and her pussy thickening and throbbing as Kerry pushed her to her knees. She reached up to undo the hip clasps on Kerry’s bottoms, tug
ging them away to reveal the soft wet strip of hair on Kerry’s pussy. Heartbeats later, her fingertips parted the woman’s cleft, felt the heat and drank in her scent.
‘Oh yeah!’ the woman cried out in deep satisfaction, clutching Priscilla’s head, riding against her mouth. ‘That’s it, you little bitch, do it like that! And don’t stop!’
Priscilla heeded her paramour’s demands. She worked up a rhythm, her tongue darting inside, licking and lapping and drawing in her folds to suck on the flesh, until Kerry’s whole body shook and heaved, breathless. ‘Son of a . . .’
Priscilla’s mouth felt damp with Kerry’s juices. God, she was so horny for her! She gripped Kerry’s hips and dived back into her sex, her only distraction the shiny gold badge at her knee.
Badge? She glanced at it, noted the shiny gold surface, stamped with the logo of the Internal Revenue Service. A special agent’s badge . . .
‘Ms Montoya?’
Cat blinked and looked up, finding herself pressing a nude Tara against the car, as if a layer of skin disguising the women had been stripped from them. Her face was still at Tara’s sex, her tongue still pleasuring her, sensing how close the other woman was.
But still, Tara was reacting. ‘You don’t . . . Oh God, you don’t have to –’
Cat shut her up with another stab of her tongue, relishing the sensual experience of it all, a part of her sensing the echoes of Priscilla and Kerry, decades before. She let her actions be guided by them, revelling in it almost as much as Tara was, feeling it build, build.
‘Fuck!’ Tara’s sex spasmed, and she threw her head back as she came against Cat’s lips. Or was it Kerry, on Priscilla’s lips? Or did it matter at that moment?
The women clutched each other as Cat rose, aware of her own hungers but content for now to take in what was going on.
Tara, however, was not. She slowly turned Cat and herself around until Cat was up against the car now, and Tara slumped to her knees before her, reaching up and unzipping Cat’s skirt at the side, lowering it and revealing black stockings and thin black panties.
