Coleman Banks placed two hard-poached eggs on an unbuttered piece of lightly toasted multi-grain bread. He shook on salt, pressed on the top piece of toast spread with peanut butter both sides, finished his milk and ate his breakfast standing up, watching the clock.
Sometimes the filling was a sliced sausage, a fillet of leftover baked fish or a chunk of banana cake.
Coleman, an intelligent guy, knew he ought to shop better or live with a cook.
It was raining. Well it was winter nudging into spring. He would walk the mile to the office if fine or catch the 8:25 if the weather was bad or looked threatening.
Out on the street the specialist in 'Security Adjustment' whatever that was, watched the approaching bus when he remembered the ceiling mounted TV in the bedroom was left on. Another reminder he really needed to be living with an efficient person to attend to such things as switching off the TV that had been going all night. He decided to ignore his mistake knowing that mistakes in his line of work could be deadly.
He boarded the red 8:25 oblong box on wheels that was packed with workers like cattle going to slaughter, er to market.
Then he saw her.
Blonde of undeterminable body shape hidden in the thick rust-red coat she last wore when under surveillance. She was back on to him.
Good.
Coleman squeezed past an asthmatic and an effeminate weasel (field training had taught Coleman to instantly identify allies, foes and those in between) until he was pressing lightly against her.
If it weren't for that thick coat she might have felt his growing erection lining up just below her anus.
It would only be fractionally below that spot actually, er probably. He was taller but she appeared to have long legs.
The bus jolted and upper bodies of those standing touched. Coleman took the opportunity to breath hotly into Madam X's right ear.
She palmed more hair over that ear.
Damn he'd eaten eggs and peanut butter and had forgotten to clean his teeth. Perhaps he should be living with a dentist's assistant? Could this woman smell with her ears?
Coleman pondered that and wondered if he should take her in for questioning?
He knew to call her madam because gloveless she held the overhead strap, provided by law for the safety of standing passengers, to reveal engagement and wedding rings.
The bus driver accelerated and Madam X (so named after his favourite target of a busty cardboard cut-out at the pistol target range where he attended monthly prescribed practice) she came back beautifully on to his erection.
She didn't apologize or even wheeze a satisfied "Oooh." Cattle crowded passengers never did because it would mean apologizing for most of their journey.
Coleman bent forward to smell today's perfume. As he did so, she reached up and parted her goldilocks to scratch her neck, just as he was about to inhale over that spot.
He smelt nail polish, or at least he thought he did. Mixed odours of passenger's unwashed flesh, hair spray and flatulence circulated efficiently through the bus. Oh and foot odour, egg-breath and expensive fragrances and cheap scent should be added to that list. But he thought honing in to within one eighth of an inch from the skin ought to give him the chance of perfect savouring of today's perfume.
Coleman, being in a frontline field unit, received compulsory perfume identification training once a month. Some senior civil servant who probably last had sex thirty years earlier, had decreed the models for male perfume testing must be male. Little wonder the service had a frightfully difficult job of recruiting males. The same stupid asshole had decreed female operatives could only test their capacity for perfume identification on females and as a result, the service had a ratio of lesbians out of all proportion to other Government departments apart from the Navy and Women's Prisons.
Coleman aimed his nose at her neck again and only just avoided being poked in the eye as Madam X reached up to recover that part of her neck from an abundant supply of hair, probably all hers. He straightened and pushed hair back over this thinning crown, known in the service as the executioner's target spot.
This was the 12th time Coleman had kept Madam X under close surveillance. There was something about her, apart from her blonde hair, that had raised his suspicion that she might have considerable sex appeal. He craftily reported her suspicious behaviour and was assigned to maintain a watching brief and to tail her if felt necessary.
He felt it necessary to tail her and, without thinking, right at that moment pushed into her but did so without the bus jolting and she turned an eyed him and whispered, "Please be discreet."
She had grey eyes, a cute nose and wide mouth made for kissing. It was the first time she'd spoken to him and she had a foreign accent.
Christ a Russian! Well perhaps.
"Sorry," he smiled, and that was the first time he'd spoken to her.
She looked alarmed.
Coleman realized he'd breached rush-hour etiquette in cattle-transport by apologizing.
"Um sorry for apologizing," he said, sounding like a buffoon out of Shakespeare.
"That's okay. Having you behind me for an early morning ride makes my day. I can always tell it's you because of where your erection comes to rest."
Eh?
She said no more and he couldn't think of anything to say. This was an encounter not covered in the department's manual.
Damn, he's missed his stop.
He gave the base of her right-hand ass cheek a friendly squeeze and left the bus to walk back in the rain.
Coleman spent the day in the office because it was raining. The targets he was after were inactive in inclement weather and so he spent his time monitoring the most insidious threat of all to National Security, Internet dating sites.
He kept thinking about Madam X and that kept him hard all day. Females in the office eyed his tent and laughed whenever he left his desk. For once he was glad they were all lesbians. Those ladies spent much of the day smelling each others perfume, top and bottom levels.
It was wet again next day. Well the city had had its winter fine day almost six weeks ago.
Coleman edged past a pensioner, a preggy who probably didn't yet know she was pregnant, and a gay before he could park into the behind er behind Madam X.
God this was suspicious. Madam X today wriggled her ass until she had him pressing into a position more comfortable for her and she sighed.
Coleman made a notebook entry: '19th. Suspect gives impression she doesn't do anal.'
There was a big series of jolts as the bus went over road works to repair road works completed at that same spot a week ago.
Madam X tottered on her high heels and with the speed of lightening and giving her quite a shock, Coleman grabbed her nearest tit and gave it a squeeze, or so he thought because there was nothing much to feel over that fucking thick coat.
"You saved me from falling," she trilled theatrically and pressed his hand against where he was squeezing, making Coleman think that was a mistake; he should have rescued her by grabbing her pussy.
The 40-year old's erection had become painfully hard and for a moment he thought it was tearing through her coat but then realised the noise came from a guy turning the page of his newspaper.
"Oooh," she purred.
Good gracious, she was communicating. According to detailed description on page 1032 of the operative's Field Manual the female's use of an explicit "Oooh" meant only one thing: she was being explicit...
Oh yes, page 1033 had been removed because it was deemed obscene. The writer wasn't executed but suffered a woeful fate. He was assigned to monitoring female toilets to prevent excessive use of paper and now faced 27 paternity suits.
Madam X rode up and down against the tip of his erection with every movement of the bus and as Coleman's blood supply pumped extra blood to his face and crotch he realized the woman's sly movements were out of sync with the movements of the bus chassis; that actually she was getting him off.
He began to pull away but too late, he exploded.
He gave her ass the now customary squeeze and weakly alighted at the correct stop and walked into Freedom Towers thinking spring must be in the air because many oncoming women had been smiling at him.
Women in the office laughed as he entered and the Queen Lesbian, Mrs Smith, guided him into an interview office saying he'd come coming to the office.
Eh?
"Just look at your pants," she clucked. "You've have a massive ejaculation. Please remove your pants."
She held them up and he saw the huge circle of wetness centred at mid-zip level.
"Please don't tell anyone," he whimpered.
She nodded her head sadly and said, "It's too late. All the women in our division saw the mess you were in and now everyone in the entire building will know. Was your bus tightly packed?"
"Um no," he lied. "I saw a billboard of a big-tit blonde sucking a lollipop."
"Oh that saucy one," smiled Mrs Smith. "I'd give anything to spend a night with her."
"Me too."
She glared at Coleman and snapped, "She's obviously gay you dummy."
Mrs Smith took his pants away to be dry cleaned by staff in the Disguise sub-section and returned with astonishing news.
"You are now being acclaimed as the most prolific ejaculator in the entire building, um male ejaculator. Security footage of you arriving at the office has been analysed and it suggests to produce a flood mark of that extent would have required the equivalent of quarter a tea cup of semen."
Coleman felt his chest swell and he smiled at Mrs Smith but she ignored his manly overture.
"We girls have decided to verify that finding. We'll give you an hour to recuperate to full charge and here is the latest Lesbian Annual to peruse. Some of the cunt stretching has to be seen to believe. Then two of us will attempt to jerk you to fill a tea cup. All the women in the building are coming here to watch."
Coleman felt his balls slithering up deep into his body in fright.
He had no option but to allow the test to be carried out after finding he was stymied, unable to reach by gun cabinet because of the crowd packing the office.
The two masturbators had difficulty getting him up but when women facing him began baring their breasts and jiggling them, Coleman rose to the occasion magnificently.
He produced an eighth of a cup to the delight of the women who agreed that most men who had the crazy idea they produced a pint of a stuff, whereas under test most actually produced less than a teaspoonful. Coleman immediately became known throughout the building as Eighth Cup Coleman Banks. He would have been humiliated but learned with pleasure that (allegedly) only females would know what that nickname meant.
