Warning: This post is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. 18+ only.
God help her, she’s still not.
I’m so happy to announce that my short story, “The Next Step,” has been included in Power Play, a new anthology from Xcite Press, edited by Miranda Forbes.
Here’s a quick (naughty) excerpt:
By the time she reached the platform, her thighs were slick, her sex swollen, and she found herself shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as she waited for the train. Per her instructions, she stood at the very edge of the platform, right where the last car would soon be pulling in. All around her, people continued to fill in the spaces and, with a tingle of anticipation, she recognised that the train would be full.
That soon, she would be amid a throng of bodies, encased in their heat, with nothing standing in the way of any stranger’s roaming hand and her flesh.
A rush of warm air bombarded her, pulling her from her thoughts as the roar of wheels on steel drowned out all of the surrounding voices. Her skirt was pressed against her thighs, riding up dangerously high with the force of the wind created by the train. As if on cue, the moment the hem drew up to flutter across her pussy, the doors of the last car slid open in front of her, and she was left burning beneath the stare of a half dozen people, all casting lascivious, judging gazes down her form.
Sucking in a deep breath, Cynthia met each pair of eyes and stepped up onto the train. Bodies parted to make way for her, but she still felt her sides being brushed as she reached forward to grab onto the pole. There were a couple of open places to sit in the filling car, but her master had told her to stand, so she stood, her hips pressing to the half wall between the aisle and the first row of seats, her knuckles white as they clung on.
As it roared back to life, the lurching motion of the train sent another thrill through Cynthia’s body, and she moved with it, swaying with every turn, vibrating with the heady rush of turning wheels. At every stop, more and more people filtered into the car, and it wasn’t long until she felt the crush of heat she had anticipated, bodies all around her.
Then there was a touch – a hand dragging over fabric, rough fingertips on overheated thighs.
She was ready to panic, her whole body tensing and her mind finally returning to rationality, reminding her that she was not that type of woman. That this was wrong.
But then the man behind her spoke.
For Aisling Weaver‘s FuckMeFriday prompt.