Best of Best Women's Erotica (23 page)

The train wasn't crowded, but it was public. Terry's head was thrown back, her eyes glazing over, her hands gripping the seat. I was afraid my breathing was even louder than hers, and damned sure my cunt was just as hot. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I'd do serious damage.

Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. As she fondled her breasts, her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry's equipment, but her focus had shifted.

“God
damn!
” whispered Terry. Or maybe it was me. Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused bodies.

“We're coming into Hartford.” Terry's strangled words sounded far away. “We'll be at the station any minute!”

Yasmin's voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my throat, echoed through my head. “Sergeant Jo doesn't have the balls to fuck a sheep!”

I snapped.

I lunged.

With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and shook her so hard that her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirt front and the hard edges of my badge.

A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.

“Dammit, Jo, cool it!” Terry hissed. “And you,” she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, “you little slut—and I mean that, of course, in the best possible sense of the word—cover up or I'll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform.”

I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again, I'd begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard, and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.

“Thanks,” I muttered. “I guess I needed that.”

“What you need,” Terry said deliberately, “is a good fucking. Jesus, Jo, if you don't get it off pretty soon, you'll have not only your international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!”

She was right. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering
and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.

I pushed myself up into the aisle. “Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?”

“You can count on me,” Terry said, and I had to go with it.

There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could with a mirror too low to show anything above my chin, and leaned my pelvis against the rounded edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.

As the door slid open, a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me and the door was shut and locked again.

“Sudden attack of patriotism,” Terry announced with a lupine grin. “Have to prevent that international incident. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.”

“You and who else?”

“Just me. Our little princess is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise.”

I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. “I swear on my mother's grave,” she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, “on my sister's grave!” Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same, I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry, the quirk of her brow told me I'd tacitly agreed.

To what, I wasn't sure. We sized each other up for a minute like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made me feel naked. I'm used to being the hard body in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I've never had to do them backward.

She retreated a few inches. “Gonna stay in uniform?” she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt, and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.

“Civilian enough for you?”

“Hell, no! The least you could do is show me your tits.”

I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I'd never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn't sure yet just where I might draw the line. I hung my shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway.

“So how about you?” She had left her jacket behind but wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.

She was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. “Breasts like pomegranates,” she said softly. “Round and high and tight. Jeez, don't they have gravity in New Hampshire?”

I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening under an independent impulse. I grabbed Terry's vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn't push the issue of her staying dressed. And Katzi had accused me of never trying anything different!

Terry pressed closer. I leaned my mouth against her ear.
“Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?”

“Yeah, sometimes, when the inspiration's right. But I usually edit it out later.” She eased back and looked me over. “I don't suppose,” she said, somewhat wistfully, “you could jiggle a little for me?”

“In your dreams!” We were both a bit short of breath now, both struggling with the question of who'd get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.

“In my dreams?” There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn't notice that she'd raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. “In my dreams,” she murmured, just barely stroking me, “you're wearing red velvet.”

I hadn't thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She'd worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria—then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off each other. Eventually, in fact, we had. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.

Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn't quite ready for that. I let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over my appreciative nipples. “One-time only offer,” I said, “for old times' sake,” and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush-cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered her knee was working between my thighs and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.

“Come on,” I muttered, “show me what you've got!” I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled
and unbuttoned and rearranged her gear for action, I kicked off my boots and pants.

She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a few seconds, then grabbed hers and shoved her leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.

“State of the art, huh?” Ten thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not wet. At another time I'd have been envious. Hell, I
was
envious.

“This one's mostly for show,” she muttered. “Are you sure…” But it was too late not to be sure.

“I can handle it,” I said. And I did handle it, working it with my hand, making her pant and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current keen as electricity but far sweeter. Then the slick material skidded in my natural lube and slid along my wet folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.

Can't hurt to see how the other half lives,
I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.

She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, aching for even more pounding.

But I had to go after it myself. “Let me move!” I growled.

Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my efforts to swing her around. The black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together.

We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit
beefier; I was taller. She'd been working out with weights and machines; I'd been working over smart-ass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tie-breaker was that I needed it more.

“You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!” I had her back against the railing now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it. Then I swung into serious action.

She flashed a grin and muttered, “Fair enough!” Then it was all she could do to hang on to the railing and meet my lunges. The train swayed and rattled, but I rode it, my legs automatically absorbing the shifts, as I rode her black cock, train to my tunnel, bound for glory. The surging hunger got me so slippery that, in spite of its bulk and hardness, what filled me might not have been enough, except that my clit seemed to swell inward as well as outward, and my whole cunt clenched fiercely around the maddening pressure.

Yasmin was emitting little squeals and whimpers; I glanced at her just long enough to notice that one hand, pulled free of the too-hastily fastened cuffs, was busy between her legs.

Terry's grunts turned into moans; she grabbed my hips and dug her fingers into my naked flesh. “Steady…damn it… steady…” she said between clenched teeth, and before I knew what was happening, she forced me back against the hard edge of the sink.

“Hang on,” I said, and swung us both around, not losing an inch this time, until my back was to the wall. I couldn't stop moving but managed to slow enough to match her rhythm and grab her leather-covered ass. Her muscles bunched as her hips bucked. I mashed my mouth into hers to catch the eruption of harsh groans, but she had to breathe, and anyway, it didn't matter how much noise she made. I felt my eruption coming
and knew there was no way in hell I could muffle it. And didn't give a damn.

I held on until Terry's breathing subsided from wrenching to merely hard. She didn't resist as I turned her again and accelerated into my own demanding beat. I saw her face through a haze, and there may have been pain on it, but she didn't flinch, just kept her hips tilted at the optimum angle for me to ram myself down onto what she offered. My clit clenched like a fist, harder and harder each time I drove toward her. A sound like a distant train whistle seemed to come closer and closer, the reverberations penetrating into places deeper than I had even known existed.

Then it hit. My clit went off like a brass gong, and waves smashed up against the explosion raging outward from my center. A storm of sound engulfed me.

Terry held me for the hours it seemed to take for me to suck in enough breath to see straight. Finally I slouched back against the edge of the sink, letting the slippery cock emerge inch by inch. She reached past me to grab a handful of paper towels; I took them away from her and slowly wiped my juices from the glistening black surface. When I aimed the used towels toward the trash container, she stopped me, folded them inside a clean one, and tucked them into her pocket, avoiding my eyes. I didn't ask.

Then she looked toward the door. As I'd been vaguely aware, Yasmin had been rubbing herself into a frenzy, apparently with some success. “So, Princess,” Terry said with the old jaunty quirk of her brow, “didn't I tell you it'd be worth it just to listen to her come? I could tape that song and make a bundle.”

“You, Terry, are a prick,” I said lazily, “and I mean that, of course, in the best possible sense of the word.”

“I still get the shivers now and then,” Terry went on, nominally speaking to Yasmin, “thinking of that alto sax wailing. The final trumpet fanfare this time, though, was better than anything I remember.”

“Jeez, I hope you edit out that kind of crap!” I said, and turned to the sink to clean up. The mirror was so steamed I couldn't see a thing. Then I dressed, feeling more secure with my gun belt around my hips. Not that security is everything.

The rest of the trip wasn't bad. The whispers and surreptitious looks from the college kids and a few others who must have heard us were kind of a kick. Yasmin watched sleepily as Terry and I chatted about old times, old acquaintances, and the intervening years. Terry got off at Penn Station, offering me a book at the last minute with her card tucked into it. I took out the card and slipped it into my breast pocket, behind the badge.