Strange Attractors Pt 01

(Author's Note: Hello, it's been a while. This is the first in a multi-part story told from a female pov with interracial lesbian themes and older/younger power dynamics. It contains masturbation, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, analingus, and a fair bit of humor. A good amount of plot setup precedes the action, so hang in there.

Thanks for reading. Your feedback is golden.)

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Strange Attractors Pt. 01

"Would you care for a sleep mask or perhaps an extra pillow ma'am?" said a charming voice from behind and slightly above her, indeed Maggie's two favorite positions for someone charming.

She turned from the window to regard the handsome older gentleman standing in the aisle to her left. He was tall and lean in his well tailored conductor's uniform, the double breasted vest and jacket both in a sumptuous charcoal grey. Two rows of horn buttons lined the vest, six in total. Against a powder blue gingham dress shirt fitted to address the sizable pecs within, his necktie hung in a knot of dark plum. The pants were of a color with the jacket, looking freshly pressed with a center crease that seemed sharp enough to shave with. Collectively, the clothes served to accentuate his long, athletic build.

Corporate America was notorious for well dressed men in suits and Maggie had seen her fair share of dapper attire, but fabric had never fit a human being so well as this. He looked like he'd been born to wear a three piece. Beneath piercing dark eyes that radiated confidence, a close-cropped beard of salt and pepper framed a strong jaw.

"Shit dude," Mags thought. What majestic gene pool did you rise up out of?"

Her eyes strayed to his lapel, where a tag named him Donatello. She smirked. Wasn't that Italian for "long stick, knows how to use it."

He even smelled amazing, a woodsy scent that called to mind kinky evenings of bare skin and hot chocolate in front of a crackling log fireplace. Gorgeous, well groomed and stately - every inch the fabled 'man in uniform'. In some alternate universe where she preferred balls & cocks instead of boobs & cooch, Donatello would have definitely been fantasy fodder for a late night vibrator session. Hell, she could appreciate male eye candy as much as any hetero gal. But in this dimension, with her lick-her license in good standing, this specimen of a man was just her gateway to free booze.

"No thanks, Donny. I'm good. But I will take that shot of Johnnie Walker Blue you were going to offer me," she said, flashing a weary smile. She felt none of the politeness that had slipped so easily into her tone, but she was nothing if not a good pretender. Her sour mood was none of Donny's doing after all.

"Very good ma'am." Donatello said with a grateful nod, smiling before he disappeared towards the bar car at the far end of the train. Even his teeth were perfect. She clocked his glutes on the way past and found them handsomely ensconced in the seat of his bespoke trousers.

"Hhmph, somebody's been hittin' the squat rack," she thought appreciatively.

She tried to imagine Donatello at the gym on leg day, still outfitted in the woollen elegance of his formal work attire and impeccably polished Oxfords, surrounded by bros and meatheads, a 200lb barbell balanced across his suit-jacketed shoulders and a steely look of "Get Some!" determination on his dignified face. But even that cheap attempt at humor did little to lift her spirits. Maybe the booze would help.

She turned back to the view outside and stared at the ghostly silhouette of the attractive Cree Indian girl reflected back at her. "How did we get here Mags?" she sighed.

With her forehead pressed against the cool window pane, Maggie sullenly watched the countryside slip by. Hillsides and horses, cornfields and cows. So many fucking cows, mostly of the resting sort. The sunrise was still some ways off over the east coast and the tardy morning darkness of mid-January reigned. It had been an unseasonably mild winter so far, long sleeve weather at best. Perfect weather to curl up under a blanket with a good book. She could very well be sleeping in her own bed at the moment, SHOULD be sleeping there, for fuck's sake! But she supposed then she would miss the show.

The calm sense of stillness inside the train cabin was strangely at odds with the smoothly scrolling landscape beyond. As a child this had been her favorite part of rail travel, that magic carpet feeling of imperceptible weightless speed. She'd practically grown up all along the Empire Corridor, travelling this way and that between one auntie or another. Trains had been her thing until her emancipation by learner's permit at age 16, and on steel wheels she'd always felt like a knight in shining armor - invincible. She sighed at the memories, trying to hold on to the momentary bubble of carefree youthful naivete, but it slid away as easily as the fleeting world on the far side of the glass.

To the untrained eye, an all-expenses-paid luxury getaway would seem just what she'd needed to recharge her severely depleted batteries. But despite her best efforts to enjoy herself, this trip felt about as far from fun as a crowded summertime bus ride to the gynecologist's office.

Her foul mood had dogged her for several days now, hanging over her head with the tenacity of an angry cartoon thundercloud, its dark mass bristling with jagged forks of white hot electricity. And who could blame her? Two years working her ass off as understudy to the senior project manager at ArkTek, the cutting edge upstart of the software industry, should have all but guaranteed she'd be next in line for a promotion to lead the East Division. But instead, sexist office politics had dashed those dreams, robbing her of the expected pay bump and detouring her well planned career track onto an actual goddamn choo choo train track, her new 2 hour rail commute courtesy of the company's sudden desire to "cultivate untapped potential" way out in the 'West Bumblefuck' branch with Maggie spearheading the effort.

Maggie knew b.s. when she smelled it, and "cultivating untapped potential" certainly had the stink. She'd been brooding on that point all morning, and had no intentions of letting up any time soon. By her count, there were at least half a dozen reasons to just let that potential go untapped, much the same reasons you don't see 7-Elevens in the Sahara or Starbucks squeezing bean juice in Antarctica. This juice wasn't worth the squeeze either. It's not even like 'West Bumblefuck' was being scouted by the competition on some "I drink your milkshake" style takeover scheme. Her superiors had simply just wanted her out of the way. Bros before hoes and all that. She drummed her fingers against the glass, mentally willing kidney stones into the bladders of various VPs and department heads who'd given her the obligatory 'next time around' speech, their condescending smiles received like so many knives in her back.

She supposed she could have spoken up for herself a little more forcefully, once again risked being labeled the angry ethnic girl, but then she'd never been much for confrontation. Aunty Moon Flower would've told her to 'soldier up' or not to take it lying down, or some other well meaning golden age platitude. Moon probably would've even talked her into filing a formal complaint with HR, likely turning her merely sexist work environment into an openly hostile one, which is probably why Mags had kept the details of her reassignment out of the conversation when they'd spoken last week. She really hated disappointing Aunty M, and besides, it's not like there weren't any perks to her situation. Someone less ambitious might even call it a win.

For one, she'd get to groom the aforementioned 'West Bumblefuck' branch of ArkTek, which housed the fledgling Applied Sciences Think Tank. She'd be partnering on said thinktank with Sid Castle, a bid data hound out of Silicon Valley. Word on the street was that Sid's boys already had a reputation for getting shit done, which was good; Maggie had no intention of babysitting. Assuming they weren't complete assholes, it could open up some interesting networking opportunities she could hit up when it was finally time to peace out and put ArkTek in the rearview. And two, she had to admit it was a pretty swank train.

"Your drink ma'am," Donatello said, dutifully rematerializing with the glass of Johnny in record time.

"Thanks Donny, you're a doll," Mags smiled, cradling the drink against her cheek like a kidnapped baby. "That'll be all." She stole another sweet lungfull of sex by fireplace before he moved on, the scent following his stone-chiseled glutes down the aisle. "Sheesh," she frowned. I'd go straight for 2 hours to fuck THAT dude.

Her glass of whiskey was brimming in what was clearly a non-standard pour of liquor. Donny was a dirty boy.

"Obliviate," she murmured, sardonically raising the glass in toast before downing the drink in one swallow. In hindsight, it would've been wise to have something solid in her system, but it was near enough to zero-o-clock in the morning that her sushi dinner and Pop-Tart breakfast proved no match for the strong spirits. Warm fingers of joy spread out from her belly, massaging boldly into the sacrosanct chambers of her consciousness. "Ohhh fuckkk, get after it," she sighed, melting into the seat cushion.

Sometime later, with her senses appropriately dulled, she was ready to revisit the sob story of her life. "How did we get here?" she challenged her hollow reflection. "I'll tell you how."

Apparently, in their infinite wisdom, the exec board had rightly assumed Maggie would make a big stink about being passed over for the shiny new haircut on the block (aka Trevor Haddon, a Brooks Brothers clad hotshot with more styling gel than experience), so by way of compensation they'd offered her head of special projects out in the west office. But when that had failed to impress her, and she'd not so subtly begun mentioning the remarkable growth potential at Oracle, they'd quickly sweetened the deal, advising that her new 4 hour round trip commute would be bumped up from First Class to whatever the hell 'Diamond Class' was.

Her ex-boss, and still closest confidant outside the family, seemed to think she'd be silly not to accept that silver medal. "Bide your time," he'd said. So she had. From the grateful ass-kissing she'd received over the next two weeks you'd have thought she'd jumped on a grenade in a children's hospital. Guess the brass didn't want to lose their token American Indian girl whose hard charging style had broken company records and shot the company's stock price through the roof.

To her grudging surprise, Diamond Class turned out to be some truly pimped out digs, her ticket granting unrestricted accommodations on The Magnus Orion, the flagship passenger train of the Northeast Corridor. By all appearances, its over the top luxury catered exclusively to cigar smoking robber barons & Rich Uncle Pennybags from the Monopoly game.

The glamorous online catalog didn't do it justice, particularly the sweeping vistas from its state of the art observation lounge: 60 feet of unblemished exterior views compliments of two seamless plexisteel glass panels running the full length of the cabin on either side, the nigh invisible fiber supports embedded vertically within. Additional amenities included 180 degree reclining pillow top memory foam seats / top shelf open bar table service with drinks spun by a world-class mixologist / unlimited recreational multimedia with Ultimate Ears UE18+ custom earbuds / Batcave quality 5G multi-screen video conferencing / and more legroom than her first year apartment out of college.

The onsite tailor, stylist, manicurist and masseuse consisted of 2 proper gentlemen & 2 exotic madams respectively. Their profiles touted multiple specialties listed beneath glossy headshots, but from the come-hither smiles on the women, Mags assumed discreet handjobs were also on the menu. They WERE hella sexy though. After a few more cocktails, she wouldn't be opposed to a little rub and fluff herself.

Even the breakfast menu was 5 stars, featuring inspired cuisine from that cocky former Iron Chef. Maggie took breaks in between bouts of pouting to allow herself to feel at least slightly elite; hot towels and free hooch could do that to even the grumpiest person.

As her breathing slowed and eyes grew unfocused, Mags drifted back to Friday, her last day at the old office.

"Hey baller, I heard you landed the Magnus!" said Suresh, the world's most affable IT guy and always the last to know everything. Mags scooched over as he joined her in the elevator on her final descent to the parking garage.

"Looks that way," she shrugged. "Glad one of us is excited."

"Are you serious!?" he said, appalled. "That train is sex with wheels under it. You know it tops out at 180mph? Picture this: You sippin' dirty martys, gettin' your pinky toes painted next to Clio Cresswell, heading the fuck west at a buck eighty. TELL me that's not a dope scenario."

She chuckled at his exuberance, despite herself. "Clio AND some toe lovin'? Now we're talkin'," she winked.

That had earned her a big East Indian grin and a bear hug, awkward with her hands full of cardboard box. She'd miss Suresh and his Inappropriate Meme Mondays. Had she known how much she'd miss him, she'd have given him a proper hug.

As it turned out, The Magnus Orion's major flaw was its complete lack of decent company. Maggie had never seen a bigger bunch of self-important pricks in her life. President of this, Founder of that, all of them high on the smell of their own money. She was making some assumptions of course, things overheard from a conference call here or there, but the gist was clear.

Ok, MAYBE this was what real wealth must look like, but why did it always seem to have a pair of balls attached? To her eternal annoyance, not one of her fellow passengers was female. She'd had enough of this 'boys club' bullshit over the last decade and a half to turn anyone into a raging bra-burning feminist. Fortunately, thanks to having a badass sapphic role model like Aunty M, she wasn't completely jaded. As her wise aunt would always say, "Being an introverted lesbian is one thing; being a bitter, man-hating introverted lesbian just won't do."

It would've been fun to have a gal pal to talk to, Maggie mused, half asleep, absently counting cows as they streaked by the wayside - maybe even someone to share corporate war stories with. Most old heads considered her new to the game, but at the go-getting age of 28 she'd already paid some dues.

Life post-academia had been tough in all the expected ways for a super minority female in the STEM fields. But one thing she hadn't counted on was the absence of platonic girlfriends to commiserate with IRL. Where were all the ballsy Girls Who Code ready to sweep her off to boozy brunches to dish about the latest coworker to Snapchat a dick pic? Her female colleagues tended to write her off as "the competition" before anything else. Consequently, her squad goals were many, but the actual squad was non-existent.

And then there was the drive-by crime scene of her love life. The absence of friends might've been manageable if there'd been someone special to come home to, but alas there wasn't. Her attempts to chat up potential long-term partners always failed miserably. Half the attention she got was from clueless guys who thought she was bi. The other half inevitably fell into predictable categories, usually some version of closeted Indian fetishist looking to check her off their scorecard.

Even among her peers she couldn't escape the stereotypes. After one steamy encounter with a stunningly nubile Parisienne grad student, the girl had snuggled up close, her breath still warm with the smell of Maggie's sex, and asked what it'd been like to grow up on a reserve.

"You mean a reservation?" Mags had replied coolly.

"Oui! I've never seen an American buffalo. You must have seen thousands up close, no?"

"No." The word had come out more disgusted than Maggie had intended, but there it was. She tried again. "I grew up in a two family house in the suburbs. My grandfather built it by hand. Wanna see pics?"

The French girl had declined, disappointment etched across her adorable face.

Frankly, it had been a while since she'd been in anything resembling a normal relationship, simply because crazy Tinderverse poon was so widely available. She'd inherited her good looks from her mom's side of the family, and with any luck she'd age into a hot piece of senior ass like Moon Flower or cousin Black Raven - the same radiant copper skin, lustrous dark hair, straight nose and almond eyes that Cree women had inherited from their earliest tribal ancestors. That alone had bumped up her average on the swiping market: exotic was in.

On top of that, she'd worked hard to maintain a bodacious figure. She'd been lanky as a teen, but years of volleyball had given her a nice tight butt, and her athletic arms and legs were now hella beach ready. Combine that with her generous 32E rack and she could definitely turn heads when she wanted to. Her nerdy, dirty & curvy status had been affirmed a thousand times over by every MMO guild she'd ever posted a profile pic to. "I'd do me," Mags thought with pride.

The problem was getting quality people to stick around. Whenever she landed someone she considered girlfriend material, those wild outspoken gals couldn't get past the fact that SHE was so bottled up. It had never been hard to find a warm body to share her bed, but the forced pillow talk afterwards was brutal. They say opposites attract, but unfortunately "they" were full of shit. And while she was lousy at small talk (unless it was while pwning noobs in gamechat; she was the Serena Williams of THAT shit), she sucked even more at being alone.

Turning from the window, Mags cracked open the book that had been sitting closed on her lap and proceeded to read the same four lines over and over again. The Johnny W had worked to take the edge off her pity party but not much else. Finally giving up on Erica Jong, she grabbed her shoulder bag, ludicrously weighed down by the crisp new 'Welcome to ArkTek, West Bumblefuck Branch' binder that she couldn't wait to burn, and took to the aisle.

Between the multitasking cyborgs talking into earpieces and the teleconferencing douchebags "getting a jump on tomorrow", the place was practically a beehive of activity. She switched cars twice, finally passing into the observation lounge, a marvel of visual engineering to make any planetarium proud. It was blissfully empty, leaving her the sole witness to the thrilling spectacle around her.

Nearly 360 degrees of hills fell away on all sides in great rolling carpets of dark green, from the far horizon to right up under her nose. Above her, the first whispers of dawn had blended a cool patina of lapis into the darker blues of midnight, signaling a last hurrah for the young and sexy before the night carried their dirty secrets away off the western edge of the world.

Between the sky and the ground it was a lot to take in all together. The nervous energy triggered a zany memory of a party once where a straight girl had described to Mags the experience of being double penetrated:

"It's sooo much stimuli you can't even deal with it all, so you just have to turn off your brain and simply feel it. It's like they're LITERALLY fucking your brains out," she'd said thoughtfully, popping a pineapple chunk from her Bahama Mama into her mouth. She'd had quite the sexy, pouty mouth and when they'd made out later, it had tasted of rum and coconut.

Taking the advice, Mags turned off her brain and let the thrusting hills have their way with her. She felt exposed, yet unjudged for her part in the spectacle. It felt oddly reminiscent of skinny dipping - of there being nothing between her naked skin and the sea while the currents danced magically through her legs and beneath her toes. For the first time all day, happiness tentatively slipped its arm around her shoulder.