Strangers

Irony

, she thought to herself as she raced for the subway. Always her lot, to be hurried just so that she could wait. Breathless, she quickly dropped her token into its slot and stepped into the car, gifting the conductor with a frail smile along with her wearied presence.

She found a seat, away from other passengers, and took a moment to allow her heart to calm its frenzied beat. Crossing her legs and leaning back, she attempted to make herself as comfortable as possible. Her eyes grazed the crowd quickly, taking no note of imminent threat. Her slim fingers slipped within her satchel between its hidden folds and withdrew a book from its depths before arranging the sack beside her. Placing a protective arm over the handle, she drew it to her closely.

Can never be too careful these days

, she thought.

She opened the volume, picking up somewhere in the vicinity of the chapter she had read last. Lost in the musings of Anais Nin, she read from

Henry and June

, Nin's erotic journal of her love affair with Henry Miller. Just as she was not certain of the cause of its attraction, however, she was well aware of its power.

It was the base descriptions of sex, she supposed, intertwined with the intense emotion of passionate, destructive love, that intrigued her. The draw lay within the interludes of harsh, animalistic couplings, of fucking, of taking, of owning, along with tender moments of intimacy, of kissing and fondling and whispering. They reminded her far too much of her own last affair. It was Nin's verbiage that drew her as well, the dated words of "sperm" and "penis," unforgiving, descriptive terms, coupled with euphemisms such as "honey."

The woman supposed she was in love with the words, both the emotional feelings and the physical sensations that those words conjured in reaction to the visual images.

"And my honey flowed, thick and sweet..."

The woman sighed heavily, deep in reverie and images that were not hers. She twirled a blonde lock of hair around her finger, wondering if her own honey would ever flow again. It had been so long. Too long.

A bump against her knee caught her attention, a jostling of clothing as she felt someone brush against her.

"A thousand pardons," a deep baritone whispered from above her. She glanced at the source, her eyes snagging on the soft brown ones above her. "Truly, I am sorry." His speech was accented, foreign. Other strangers mulled behind him, finding seats and talking in grating tones.

She smiled at him, unable to do anything else. His expression seemed repentant, ingratiatingly so, perhaps, his lips arching south in a worried frown. He seemed rather flustered at a simple accident. "It's fine, really," she replied.

"Might I?" His question was unfinished, his intent clear.

She studied him a long moment, taking note of his suit, dress shoes, his neat nails and smooth hands. Safe enough, she thought. Nodding, she stood to remove her coat to allow more room. She placed it across her lap and put her opened book atop it, the spread pages faced down.

"I couldn't help but noticing," he began, his voice soft and light, "your book. I've read all of them, including her other works." His voice was a deep flute, soft and musical. She found herself immediately at ease.

"As have I," she replied. "Well, not all of her journals. I've only read a couple of them."

He grinned at her, a flash of white teeth against dark skin. His face was the color of cafe au lait, and it struck her that he was not American. He appeared of Indian descent, and yet his British accent seemed ill-fitting with the rest of him. He smiled again, and she was caught in the complimentary measure of his whole--his skin, dark and smooth, his eyes, so bright despite their near-black hue, his voice, a vocal mirror to his smile, full and deep.

She blinked as she realized how closely she was studying him. She was always aware of her surroundings; she had been trained to be. Mental swipes of the perimeter, a sense of paranoia that had served her well in the past. And yet, was it merely concern for her safety that noticed the neat fold of his hands in his lap as he watched her, the curve of his cheek as his lips lifted?

"Not many Americans seem to have heard of her," he added genially, conversationally as he sat next to her, turning slightly as to face her.

She nodded again. "To be honest, I'm not certain how I first heard of her. It just seems that I've always known of her. I found one of her diaries in a library once, and could not put it down. It revolutionized the way I write my own."

"Ah, so you write then?" He seemed oddly pleased, a piece of hair nodding with him.

Her brows arched upwards as she laughed. "Do diaries really count, though?"

"Of course. Everything one writes counts."

"I do a bit more than that, but, nothing serious, I'm afraid."

His cheeks pulled his lips into a wide grin, his eyes wrinkling with mischief. "A pity. Ah, well, not everyone can be Nin, I'm afraid. Her gift was unmatched."

"So true. Something about her words, her life, her love. It inspires both eros and pathos in me."

He edged a bit closer to her, his knee touching the coat above her thigh. "Are you easily inspired then?"

She blinked at his closeness, and briefly wondered if there were a double meaning to his words. She grew flustered, heat rising to her cheeks as she weighed her answer. "Yes," she admitted. "I'm the veritable romantic. Life, love, eros, pathos, beauty and darkness, it all inspires."

"A passionate woman, then," he observed simply. "So I had thought when first I saw you."

"You did, did you?" she was surprised.

"Yes." He looked at her, his eyes caressing her form, following the curve of her neck, the line of the coat that covered her lap. "It was the way you sat, so sure, the way you chose your seat, a mixture of courage to sit from a vantage point which allowed all view, and, I think, a little fear of something, something a bit more mysterious. It was your hair, unbound, your dress, long but wispy." The tip of his tongue peeked at her, wetting his lips as his gaze remained unbroken. "You have the face of an angel," he whispered, drawing closer to her, his hand now heavy on her knee. "The look of a tigress, calm but for a moment."

She looked away, green eyes avoiding his. He had the confidence of someone who said such things often. She had the look of someone who had not heard such things often.

"La tigresse qui reve," she whispered, her gaze still distracted, held by some intangible thing away from him.

"Yes. Exactly. A goddess."

She was certain he was taunting her. She turned her eyes to his face, searching for deception.

"A thousand pardons, again," he whispered, his hand moving from her leg. "I -- I say too much entirely. I have a habit of speaking my mind with ill timing." His hand gone, he did not move away from her, his body leaning still, almost against hers.

"I am sure you speak your mind quite often." She was mocking him now, her tone carrying a note of disdain.

His head shook negatively, his eyes closing briefly as he did so. "I --. No, I do not." He opened them again, his long lashes brushing his cheek, nearly touching his brow. "Tell me, though, have you read

Little Birds

?"

"I have," she answered, blinking at the change of subject.

"And what did you think?"

"Honestly? I was disappointed. Her journals are so vibrant, so full of sensation. Her erotica, on the other hand, seemed too censored, too lacking of what makes her writing so breath-taking."

"They were commissioned to be such. Stripping the emotion out of the act, leaving only raw sexual interludes."

She nodded. "I know. A tragedy, really. To me, what is sex without emotion? Nothing. Emotion is passion. It creates lust, transcends an ordinary experience into something sacred."

"Yes," he hissed, his hand gripping her thigh once more, her skirt lifting briefly before settling above his hand. "Exactly. Emotion creates passion, inspires lust. Makes gods of men."

She felt his fingers on her leg again, five points of heat against her bare thigh. Her eyes met his directly, a challenge.

His palm brushed her, his fingers moving slightly, as he gazed at her. "Passion is life, wouldn't you say?"

She nodded, her throat catching, as she felt his fingertips play over her leg. They stroked her stockings, her own personal idiosyncrasy, the gartered belt and silken garments suddenly so vulnerable.

His smile broadened, opening a chest of pearls once more. He played with the edging, stroking her thigh over the silk and under the lacy tops. "I was not wrong," he whispered, leaning more closely to her.

"About?" Her pulse was once more racing, her thoughts scattered. Her breathing was labored as she attempted to gather her wits. She would move his hand in a moment, surely. As soon as she could catch her breath.

"Your being passionate." His hand was moving upwards, past her stockings, circling and stroking the skin beneath her skirt. His hand traced her skin, his strong fingers parting her thighs slightly before hovering over the joining between her legs.

"I--" She found she could not complete the thought, her head swirling. She could not believe that she was allowing this stranger such privileges. Surely she would tell him to stop, to reprimand him.

His lips were to her ear. "You are so wet." He spoke so softly, his voice thick as his breath warmed her skin. His pleasure was evident, his tone and his smile certain of her.

She looked away, down, at the floor of the car, suddenly so very aware of the voices around them, the people, all engaged in their own musings, conversations, and novels.

No, she wanted to scream. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

And my honey flowed, thick and sweet...

His face was before her, his aquiline nose a breath from her freckled one. "May I kiss you?"

Swallowing, she nodded, her voice leaving her as surely as her good sense had.

His lips moved over hers, his tongue tracing her lips, parting them even as his hand pounced, pushing her legs apart and softly stroking her mound. In that moment, she melted, flowed into the seat, liquid and hot beneath his mouth and fingers. His touch pressed against her, moving her panties aside easily, slipping between her folds of flesh, stroking the length of her.

He took her bottom lip in his teeth, biting gently. Her eyes flew open at once, widened and startled, even with his. "Goddess," he whispered, her lip still in his grasp. His tongue ravished her mouth, stroking her palate, encircling her tongue. His fingers traced and explored, pinching lightly, tugging on the short hair he found there.

He broke the kiss, moving his face from hers minutely. His eyes were deep, endless orbs, the pupil almost indistinguishable from the iris. He merely watched her, his eyes hooded, lids heavy.

He was slick with her, that much she could tell. Her instinct was to flinch, to clench her thighs together, although she was not certain if this was to prevent further invasion, or to keep him from escaping.

Her teeth captured her own lip, the bottom half pinioned against her teeth as she breathed heavily.

"Little bird," he said softly, "my own mount of Venus." His fingers probed more deeply with his words, one entering her swiftly, another on her rosebud. Swirling, they moved inside of her, outside of her, driving her. "Talk to me of emotion. Talk to me of passion. Talk to me of things sacred." His tone was silky, like her stockings, coaxing soft whimpers from her.

"I can't," she answered from between clenched teeth.

His face moved to her mouth, blocking her sight. She was certain someone had seen them, would see them. Now all she could see was him, his nostrils flared slightly, the tiniest trace of morning stubble on his otherwise smooth skin. His eyes, so large under dark brows, his lashes so long.

"Perhaps I should talk to you, then, hmmm? Perhaps I should tell you how I noticed you as you first boarded the subway. Perhaps make you even more self-conscious than you already are, telling you how your neck turned at a sound, your blond hair swaying, and I wanted to kiss you then. How your coat fell open, and I could see the curve of your breast, the outline of your peaks through your blouse. How I wanted to touch them then, take them in my hands, bury my face between them."

He was whispering, still, his words barely audible, her quickened pulse the only visible sign she had registered his words at all. Her eyes closed, lashes brushing her cheek as her head rested in the cook of his neck. She would not think of the crowd, the people that could see her wanton behavior. She would not think of herself, allowing a stranger to touch her so. She would only think of this moment, of this hand, this man, this feeling of losing herself in sensation. Her lips against neck buried a half-moan against him.

"Yes," he hissed again, his beautiful mouth so close to her. "That is it, my goddess, fly free my little bird." His fingers continued their movement, their claiming of her, stroking her from within. "Perhaps I should confess that I saw the tops of your stockings as you sat, the slit of your skirt moving, revealing your secrets to me. Perhaps I should show you what I envisioned the moment I saw you..." his voice trailed off as he pulled her coat to cover his lap as well. He grasped her hand in his, squeezing, and placed it above his own swelling.

Her fingers hovered, the heat of him imminent, scorching despite the lack of direct contact. She lay her hand upon him, curving her palm and fingers to mold to his shape. He said nothing then, only kissing her, his mouth to her neck, her chin, her eyelids. His finger within her jerked, working her faster, harder, with purposeful intent.

With no other warning, she erupted, her inner muscles clenching around him, her body pressing ever closer to his. Her fingers grasped him, hard, squeezing him unmercifully as she rocked against him.

"My goddess," he moaned against her. "Yes."

She felt languid, lost, floating as she melted once more. She looked up at him, her own lids heavy with desire, her own body satiated and yet hungry. She should have felt shameful, outraged. Instead, she only felt needy, starving, wanting more of him.

He removed his hand, pulling her towards him. "Please, please..." his motions drew her to him, and, without further words, she was aware of his desire. She stood, smoothing her skirts, meeting no one's gaze as she paused before him, her back to him. She heard the sound she was waiting for, a small noise, the small run of a zipper, and she gasped.

He put his hands to her hips, shifting her, positioning her as he guided her to him. He filled her swiftly, in one quick motion, sinking into his lap even as he lost himself within her swollen depths. Once again her honey flowed, sweet and thick, as he sat, unmoving, beneath her.

His breath was in her ear again, breathing, unable to form intelligible words. "Goddess," he chanted, a mantra. His strong arms wrapped around her, his hands grasped hers as they clenched together in her lap. It was only then he began to move, short jerking motions, hindered by her weight and the people around them. He buried his face in her hair, moving it aside with his nose, and placed the flat of his tongue against the nape of her neck.

"Goddess," he moaned again, lifting her, pressing further inside of her, his manhood thick and taut within her. "A perfect fit. Perfection..." His hands pulled hers more deeply between her thighs, hidden by the coat. Pressing to her, pushing him into her. His breathing became thick and labored as he grunted against her.

She could feel his stunted thrusts, brusque and raw; the prick of his parted zipper beneath her; the feel of his arms around her; and the strength of his thighs below. She leaned into him, eyes closed, her lips parted slightly. Locks of her loosened sunflower hair streamed like a golden river behind her, bits falling over his shoulder, between them as he rocked them both.

His breathing became frenzied, his movements even more fierce. She opened her eyes, startling as she saw another, a young man, watching her with a shocked gaze. She met it levelly, locking it with her own widening eyes as she felt her lover's surging, his essence filling her like wine into her chalice, flowing, overflowing, an overabundance of passion. She pressed more tightly against him, his face to her neck, clasping their laced fingers hard, as once more she stifled a moan of completion.

Neither she nor the stranger broke the gaze.

Still coupled, they sat in relative quiet as the sounds of the subway came back into focus. People around them grew louder, their voices harsh, biting, interrupting their joined solitude. Their breathing evened, slowed, and she remained still for a long moment. Her eyes cut to the face of the voyeur, her cheeks brightening.

"Thank you," he spoke, finally, the sound pulling her away from the eyes of one stranger and back into the embrace of another.

She turned, trying to see him from the corner of her eye, leaning her cheek to his. Her silence was both her own gratitude and acceptance.

Suddenly she started. "My stop!" she exclaimed, nearly jumping up in alarm. "I must go..."

She stood once more, barely allowing him time to cover himself, noting as she spun to face him, that he was a mess, a wet stain marking his trousers.

"Will I?" he asked.

She shook her head no, grabbing her bag as she fled the car, her coat and book forgotten behind her.

She stepped from the subway, her insides dripping still. She gazed among the crowd surrounding her, unfamiliar faces all, and her spirit simply took flight.

Little bird, indeed.