Package Transit Ch 05

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

My my Anastasia...how things have changed for you.

You

:

They have changed quite a bit, haven't they.

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

And it's all because of your own efforts -

You

:

It is not, all these things went down around me and they just...happened to bring me good fortune. I'm not the cause of any of this.

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

"Much of our suffering comes from trying to control those things which we can't control." You, however, have taken them - that one out of ten things that you're actually able to affect - and made them yours. You steered your own ship, even if you couldn't command the waves themselves.

You

:

Who are you quoting? I should know, shouldn't I?

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

Socrates. You heard it it in your high school philosophy class back in the day...remember? Ah...maybe not. It doesn't really matter. "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift from All Above Heaven, which is why we call it -"

You

:

Oh no come on, you go from quoting Socrates to -

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

- the present. :)

You

:

Kung-Fu Panda.

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

Ah, but see Anastasia, you actually remember where that one came from because it's significant. Stop denying what you have built for yourself against all odds for once, will you? Look at how things have changed for you in just four weeks - remember back when you wouldn't even talk to me? When you were ohhh sooo sure that everything was doomed to disaster?

Once again, that fiendish presence perched upon your shoulder, speaking in your own voice with greater confidence than you yourself could ever muster (to anyone but Aram or Tiberius, truth be told) was absolutely correct. You ruminate over the sudden transformation of your fortunes - once you were like a pretty blue-bottle, flitting nervously beneath the shadows of flowers, but you'd changed into a radiant dragonfly...something that was regarded with a curious mix of awe and fear. You always had your fill now. Indeed, ever since you'd grown involved with Tiberius at your workplace you'd discovered a kink in the legalistic armor of your employer.

He'd gotten his hands on the security footage of Mahmud sealing the doors to keep the rioters from breaking in, slipping it to you on an encrypted flash drive, and it was not hard to find a lawyer eager to take the case. Your boss had been more than willing to arbitrate and settle outside of court - your counselor, Harvey Bergmann, walked away with a tidy fee, and you climbed the stairs quite literally to your own brand new office, a plump deposit in your bank account and a yearly salary that had climbed into the six-digit range.

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

As a child you boiled drinking water to kill parasites. You used a notebook because your dad couldn't afford toilet paper. Now, Anastasia, you sleep under 5,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, you drink Chateau Alfred Rothschilde Red and you have the most luxuriant toilet paper in the City.

You

:

You have to bring up the toilet paper every time, don't you. Listen, I endured years - hear me, YEARS - of loose leaf in the name of hygiene, I worked hard to get a break.

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

There's no denying that, not at all...and even if your job is questionable -

You

:

Someone's gonna do it if I don't -

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

- you don't cause harm. You donate to reputable charities. You play Gin Rummy on Sundays with Old Miss Barnaby. You and your boyfriend hook homeless people up with hygiene products, charging equipment, hot meals...many are those who have done and behave worse.

Your boyfriend.

That's what he was, right? Tiberius wasn't

really

your boyfriend, not that Aram minded you having your thing with him since Aram had his own fun on the side, and this never bothered you.

Many are the good things that have finally come into your life, and seemingly with no strings attached; things were surprisingly simple in their own way, because nobody was ever hurt. You think about the last date you went on with Tiberius -

-slinking your arm through his as you walk at his side, distracted from the Tibetan Cultural Exhibit at the Vortigern Field Museum by his sheer sex appeal. Five seconds of every six your eyes are tracing over the impression of his delicious physique underneath the silver collared shirt he wore, not a single smooth thread out of place when you drew your touch lightly down his ribcage...that every sixth second your attention was drawn to a three-century old Mandala, or an ornate saber in its gilded scabbard. He seemed to expound upon all of it with confident depth and knowledge. Nothing to you was more appealing than the ostentation of a mind rich with wisdom, which only enhanced his desirable physical presence. You're standing, gazing upward in quiet awe with brightly flushed cheeks as he effortlessly rattles off a history of the obscure Cham-Phrong Monastery's brave stand against the very Communists you'd been selling financial products to...his hand had drifted down your back to rest upon your ass, a daringly public display of possessiveness that made your thighs rub together with need. It was why, on the elevator ride down to the Neolithic Glory Display in the basement, you'd pushed him against a wall and kissed him, reaching a hand down to feel the hardening girth of his manhood.

The date would have been exciting enough had the intimacy and passion ended on that note, but like magnets of opposing polarity, you were drawn inevitably to make as intimate contact as possible. From the highest peak of intellect and class, down to the seedy nadir of lust -

- where he railed your sopping-wet sex, your fingers clenching the edge of the sink. Nobody on the third floor of the museum had noticed as you both disappeared into the elegantly appointed staff restroom you'd found unlocked. While you'd certainly noticed the red-and-gold striped wallpaper and the soft-glow of an antique French lamp, further details eluded you as each thrust of his cock scattered your attention like billiard balls. Skirt hiked up, panties slid to the side, your tongue lashed out instinctively across his index finger as his ring-glittering hand slid up your winsome throat to your lips. You sucked it lewdly into your mouth to give you something to moan around when your climax came at his attentive touch to your throbbing node. He's smirking at you with triumph in the mirror as your thighs shudder, your muscles contract around his manhood and your nectars splash across the haft of his cock. Your red painted nails scrape across the soapstone of the sink, and when the storming rush of your orgasm has run its course your own hand crawls down between your legs, feeling the diaphanous flesh of your labia spread around his dripping haft; you find his low-slung testicles, running your tongue with a grin over your lips as you massage them in your palm, coaxing his tempo ever closer to fill you with his ejaculation...

You loved his company - from his comet-quick wit to his fulfilling rut. He lives rent-free in your mind, but it is Aram who dwells in the temple of your heart. You'd not let anyone past those shuttered gates for years but he'd honored you with the sort of affection and love you'd always dreamed of. Like a rebel Prince Charming flying a black flag, he'd swept you off your feet to carry you off on his steed - only instead of a horse he rode a YZ250F. It was the first time you'd ever been on a motorcycle, and the first time you'd ever gone to a psytrance concert - you hadn't even known such a thing existed. Out there, miles from the city, the serene quiet -

- was broken by the rhythmic thud of hammering bass and melodic trebles. There were easily a few hundred people out here in the grassy hill-land just south of Granger Bayeux, most of whom seemed to already know Aram from a range of raucous parties and, of course, a storied career of running with politically subversive groups. The firelight cast a glittering shine across your tanned skin, perspiration dusting your neck down to the curve of your breasts in the black bikini top you sported; Aram made no secret of his carnal attraction to you, his touch brushing over your hips and ass in those high-cut camo-green shorts. You sat on his lap, kicking it with some of his friends from college around a sculpture made of interwired lava lamps, passing the hours with scandalous tales and impromptu song - a joint passed around the circle loosened your inhibitions and when night fell you were dancing with that Latin seduction only a girl like you could pull off. The lustful gazes of men and women alike crawled over you like sunlight through clouds, but you only had eyes for Aram. He'd forsaken his shirt hours ago against the humid Summer haze, and the muscle-cuirass of his chest...the handsome outline of his face in the bonfire's glow with that special smile, just for you...and of course, the alluring bulge under the fly of his jeans, they tossed what was left of your propriety into the swamp.

It had been the best party you'd ever attended - not because of the music or the drugs particularly, but it was Aram's company. You fell into each other's patterns, like years-long best friends; he had the same outrageous, irreverent sense of humor you'd once worked to hide from others' easily-ruffled sensibilities. You'd even read the same dark, angsty fantasy novels as high schoolers, and later the same equally tenebrous erotica. It made you insanely hot for him, and more than that, you could tell him -

" - I love you, I fucking love you baby," words hissed against the night's quiet as you bit down on his earlobe. With rain sprinkling softly on the tent's canvas mantle, his sleeping bag rumpled beneath you, you spread your legs lewd and wide, holding on to his hips and guiding him to your core. As had become your ritual, slick and hot with his first orgasm tingling within you, he vigorously fucked his seed deeper. As you'd discovered, his cock just happened to hit all the most -AMAZING- places in your vagina, points of pleasure you hadn't even known existed until he'd pressed his cum against them; the aching stretch danced perfectly along the line of pleasure just before pain, and he was the perfect length to simply...pound you. "I fucking love you too," he growled against your lips - it was by no means the first time he'd told you, but it was the first time (and not the last) he'd said those words while others heard you mating. In other tents, even outside your own, you could hear concert-goers engaging in their own carnal activities, initiated by your shameless desire to show them how well Aram could give it to you. You just...couldn't deny it: each one of your climaxes was more powerful with the knowledge that you'd inspired others. His second release within you was prompted by your kiss, a long-held note of release trumpeting from your throat and his with each spurting gush of his cum in your pussy.

Again...perhaps not the most traditional arrangement but you were hardly a traditional woman. You were a woman who'd overcome the sort of adversity that would break even the most steel-spined, and you'd finally been given what you truly wanted...a loving, wild romance, open and fun and incredible.

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

And here we are...you, my darling, are truly ambitious.

You

:

Do you think I can pull this off?

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

You certainly dressed to kill...how could they say no?

You

:

Oh I can think of many, many ways this could go wrong; what if -this- is where that male jealousy kicks in? What if they say yes and one of them chickens out, or like...they feel envious? Remember that story we read about the guy who pulled a gun cuz the other dude had a bigger dick?

The Devil on Your Shoulder

:

That's not the case here though, and you know that. Both of them have amazing dicks.

As was usually the case, the Devil whose advice had brought you nothing but happiness and advancement was right on all fronts. You were most certainly dressed to kill. After much fretting and struggling with details, as was your wont, you'd chosen a shiny blouse of sparkling gold; it shimmered brightly in the low club-lighting, unbuttoned to coyly reveal the gentle valley of your cleavage and the fringe of a lace-edged, black brazier underneath. It flattered your chest, drawing attention to the round firmness of your bust which both Tiberius and Aram enjoyed to your delight. Tucked into a black silk skirt, cut at the middle of your toned thighs, the sheer audacity of what you were going to try and accomplish tonight caused your lower belly to flutter, a flush of warmth rolling through your sex.

Underneath it all...a daring little thong awaited, one Tiberius was particularly fond of as it was so easy to shift to the side to take him. Gold, strappy heels were your shoe of choice tonight, and in the glorious ensemble of your outfit you knew were you getting looks from the well-dressed staff of Raulfo's.

You check your cellphone...almost time.

This could prove to be the best night of your life, or a complete disaster; you'd had a pretty damn good streak of success so far, however...

Meanwhile, in the lobby of the Hallesoff Building

57...58...59.

"Showtime," he muttered, sliding his smartphone in his pocket and checking himself once moer in the reflective windows of the lobby; easier to see details when a truck went growling by, and nighttime was when the vast majority crawled through The City's jammed streets to make their journeys out of Pomdufond County and up the Green Highway. They had schedules to keep that got tighter every year as the Teamsters became increasingly sclerotic and corrupt under their moldering leadership...but Aram had been finding such things harder and harder to care about.

That happened sometimes, when you met a girl that you were really into, all those things that sustained you through the liminal space of being single...not that he'd ever really lacked for sex. It'd become a predictable way to pass the time rather than passion shared with someone he cared about, though - until the girl of his dreams groped his cock on public transit. The temptress in question was waiting for him up there, and he always showed up just a bit early to the scene...he wondered what she was wearing; a woman's clothing was never something he'd particularly valued, but Anastasia was a being of artful physicality. Everything she did, from her silken saunter to the way she hiked her skirt up her thigh in invitation, with a display of whatever confection was clinging to her lush ass, seemed subconsciously choreographed.

As a bonus, she was always timely for their dates and moved quickly as a matter of course on those long legs, smooth like satin.

No easy feat down here in the South where everyone operated either on 'Iberian time' as he called it. That meant one needed to pad appointments with at least fifteen to thirty minutes. The fact that Anastasia was never late for him stood out...it warmed him in a way that was different from the caustic outrage-heat that usually suffused him. So he tried his best to look nice for her, using his limited funds (professional rabble-rousers didn't rake it in like business analysts or financial advisors) to get his hands on some decent threads.

At least, he thought they were decent, and she probably would too. Right? Truth be told, when it came to clothes and his personal appearance Aram often winged it because he hadn't had the luxury to pay attention, nor had anyone ever expected it of him...expectations had been low all his life, but again that changed with her.

It was why once shaggy black hair worn in disarray was clipped close and lightly gelled (with just a hint of affected mess); vintage band-wear and self-designed shirts proclaiming his latest rebellion were rather yesteryear, and tonight was the night of long sleeves and black, silver trim - he'd never been able to go fully-prep and formal, always a hint of punk in his chain-bracelet and studded belt. Second-hand jeans sat in a drawer at home for more than two months, and though he hadn't exactly grown accustomed to the way those wine-colored slacks Anastasia liked outlined her 'favorite parts', he had to admit they had a certain appeal.

Aram desperately wanted to look good for her. He'd never been this thoroughly attracted to a woman, maybe the first time he'd ever really known 'love' in his relatively few years - it had taken until the third date for her to admit that she was three years his elder, and in the back of his mind was this grinding unease that she would grow bored of him. He feared that he'd become little more to her than a callow plaything to pass the time. Anastasia was a creature of voracious sexual desire and incredible potency, and he knew that he wasn't the only man to grace her bed but...she assured him that he was her favorite, that she never used the 'L' word with any of them.

Raulfo's - really this whole part of town - was a bit high-class for his wallet, and he felt like a seagull among a flock of peacocks, pheasants, and birds of paradise.

This building kind of reminded him of this one club at the very top of the Sears Tower he'd gone to with a buddy. Where that place had been tacky and chaotic in its design, Raulfo's stuck loyally to its Meso-American Aristo chic, gold-leaf and Aztec codices layered over post-modern geometries. Checking himself in the reflective door of the elevator, he adjusted his belt and straightened his shirt before climbing in - holding the door open for another gentleman.

Aram leaned back against the wall, checking his phone simultaneously with his fellow passenger. Now

this

guy looked could fit in effortlessly in a place like this; he'd never been into the same sex, but even he recognized a good looking man. Punching down the sneering face of insecurity like one of those Patriot Front shit heads, he took a moment to analyze him.

He wore a crimson, gold-trimmed blazer open, casual over a green formal shirt tucked into red slacks; his pate was smooth-shaved, teak-dark and shining in the acerbic elevator lighting. The edge of a raptor's smile hinted at a razored intellect, eyes glinting devilishly behind silver, square frames.. Okay...this guy was definitely a lot more handsome than he was, and richer to boot; there came the gap-toothed grin of insecurity, reminding him that he was dating

way

outside of his league.

Thank god he didn't have to compete with him.

Aram pulled his phone out, glancing through a gameboard update for his favorite PC shooter when he noticed his companion's eyeglasses-reflection in the screen.

"You play Honorless?" the other man queried in a smoky baritone that sounded fit for board-rooms, big-tech exhibitions and TV cameras...friendly at least. Didn't even mind him peeking at his phone screen.

"I do in fact - I run with Clans, you?" Aram immediately began to like him when he gave a dramatic cringe and tsk.

"Harbormen...you don't strike me like one of those proles who plays Clans."

The two chuckled and shot the shit for the minute or so the painfully-slow elevator took to crawl up the fifteen floors to Raulfo's. Aram gave him a friendly fist-tap and made for the elevator door...at the same time as his companion. "Funny, you don't strike me as one of those proles who comes to Raulfo's."