Mildred hadn't expected that her life of teaching young minds and, well, living on the straight and narrow would lead up to this. Her, a student-teacher for an ages-old academy, forced into smuggling contraband to make ends meet. Not only was it illegal and immoral to defy the trade agreements with the aligned Centralrian governments, she was carrying witchcraft contraband. The stuff made and sold by genuine witches.
Aulra, spare her!
Mildred couldn't believe it when she was told and she could hardly believe it now.
Smuggling things like that, witch-made or not, was worth a life-time sentence to a dark lab owned by the Royal Research and Remittance Committee. A fine name for an organization that killed more people than they saved. But what sat more firmly in Mildred's mind was her students. What would they think of her? She'd taken care to keep her trips discrete and paid any wagging mouths silent but there was always a chance-
Oh, she couldn't think of that now! Focus on the job. Be the professional smuggler.
Fumbling her way onto the tramcar, Mildred held back her whimper. She never much liked them, tramcars or tramlines. Everyone she knew had a complaint or two about them. The foul stench. The prismatic smokestacks that fogged up the countryside. And of course, the small space. Aulra, was the small space terrible. Even if she managed to get on first, the car empty, she'd find an elbow in her face or a butt on her lap by the second stop.
Considering how a tramcar was built, concepts like personal space and comfort went to the wayside. A tramcar had about six vertical benches, rickety and poorly-made, melded to the iron walls. Not to mention, they were all painted the most garish and coppery of colors. A simple pleasant green would come out looking like a horrid, rancid, vomit-green on top of a tramcar. Don't get Mildred started on their red models. She's glad they all went to the scrap yard after the scandal they made last year.
Tramcars weren't made to outdo the more favorable ways of getting around like trains and trolleys.
They were for cargo. Promoted as quicker, reliable, and more honest delivery than what a slow train plagued by bandits all around the clock could provide. Then they decided to gouge the poor. Letting the whole world know exactly how Central cared about its imported working class. They charged practically a whole working salary just to be allowed on their dinky machines for a month.
Hardly on board, the tramcar decided to close its doors then and there.
Mildred swiftly hitched her skirt up and, for no offense, elbowed the people behind her out to secure her spot. Whether Mildred wanted to or not, she learned the art of riding on a tramline. Her work, smuggling as it were, required it. And to ride a tramcar meant she had to forget her manners. One was not polite on them. If you were, you'd be left at the train stop, gobsmacked and bitter. One was not kind to passengers. If you caught the need to be nice, you'd be forced off by the surge of people getting on and off.
And for Mildred, giving up her manners was still quite the battle after all these months.
Slamming shut, the doors managed to catch some fabric by the men and women still standing at the tram stop. Tourists they had to have been. They made a scene, trying to pull out their skirts and shirts from the tram's metal doors.
Pressed safely on the other side, Mildred watched in dismay as the tourists didn't put one and one together. Anyone from the capital city or from Central wouldn't have come anywhere near a tramline. And the islanders and foreigners who regularly used the tramlines would have had enough sense not to bring their clothing close.
There was something in the fuel that went into running a tramline. It made one's clothing cling to the outside of its doors and walls. If you didn't strip of your own will, you'd be stripped right down to your unmentionables.
The tramcar's bell rung and it was off, thundering down the hillside like a unhinged beast. With it came the chorus of torn clothing and, of course, the shrieks. For the sake of their modesty, Mildred averted her eyes. The men in the car roared in laughter. And it was just men behind her. Around this time of the day, night falling and streetlights being lit, only miners and metalworkers used the tram.
Had she gotten on an hour earlier, she would have been sharing tramcars with the female workers but that was something she could mull over later. The lights in the tramcar came on, blinking and flickering annoyingly as Mildred was forced to fight the bright sting they gave. Either they were dim and useless, or bright and oh so painful.
Mildred rubbed her eyes and turned from the doors, ready to start moving further in. The men still chuckled and guffawed and she couldn't help but snort at their amusement. The tramcar caught everybody once. They honestly didn't have the right to laugh.
Dark-skinned or light, human or not, the men always had similar builds. Big. Tall. Broad-shoulders. Smoldering dark eyes like they were all actually bats seeing sunlight for the first time. An excessive amount of chest hair. Seriously. The sort that they must had wrestled off a bear or two to earn.
Some had the decency to wear shirts. Usually unbuttoned but the thought counted. Most didn't, however. Instead, they let their sweaty and glistening and toned man-breasts just hang out there.
Women had to cover their tits. Why didn't they?
Mildred couldn't stop taking peeks and lingering glances. It was there! In her face! Showing off brazenly and occasionally grinding against her as she rushed her way through. Their chests weren't as soft as a girl's. No, they were soft in a different way, meaty and oddly squeezable. Fresh sweat lines making a map of their awesome pecs and tight stomachs. Even the more huskier men caught her eyes, their beefy shape and form no way diminished by the beer bellies they carried.
Mildred, despite her grand and awkward height, was nothing but marshmallow goo in comparison.
Some people might say Mildred had a crush on mining men. And Mildred would not correct them.
Sculpted by their hard labor, the miners were all sharp lines and thick calloused skin. Men of rugged rock, she liked to think of them. The soot and ash from the mines clung to their skin, making them all a bit grittier and dirtier than you'd expect off an average man. The desire to lick them clean came and went with every other thought. But Mildred would never act on it. She had a job to do. There would be no funny business in transit. But Mildred's mind still wandered, filled with filthy five-second fantasies.
She couldn't resist wrinkling her nose, intoxicated by the smells filling up their little tramcar.
The miners often carried an erotic stench back with them. A hint of male musk along with that ash-dirt and burning aroma that clung to their slacks and skin. Like a well-trained hound presented with a feast, her mouth began to fill with saliva. A involuntary action that led to loud lewd swallowing. As if she was signaling, "if you all asked, I will get down on my knees and wash your dirty cocks!"
As Mildred careened through for the back of the tramcar, using her body as a crowbar, she tried to turn off her senses. What she was doing here would have been seen as inappropriate anywhere else. Catching a miner by surprise with her swift jabs might make them jerk out of the way.
But sometimes, almost all of the time, she had to go around.
Mildred's body ended up pressing into those walls of hot muscular flesh. Her flat breasts rubbing against their stiff manly ones. Each encounter was brisk and professional. Mildred tried not meet anyone's eyes as she passed through. The heat of a miner's skin rightly roasting her cheeks into red.
Her eager fat nipples poked through her white high-collar blouse, greeting each man with more attention than she would have liked. And her rear couldn't help but to brush and hover by groins and laps. Spreading a miner's powerful legs by just a light tap of her large backside.
These miners didn't have the common decency to look the other way on her actions. None of them outright touched her. Thank spirits. But she felt their meaty manhoods respond. Brush her right back as if asking her to her ass down then and there. The swell of their tips pushing through their pants, that tenting cock prodding open her cresting twin ass-cheeks, was exhilarating.
But she'd only allowed herself five seconds to indulge.
To think and pretend and relish in that forbidden contact of cock and ass in such a public, public place. And then, of course, she was gone. Back to fighting her way for a better spot in the tramcar.
Mildred kept her chin up, not wanting to bare witness to what her heels were doing in her blind rush. Shoes being smashed under by her black heels. Long legs that laid right in the middle of the tramcar being kicked out of the way. Her knees jabbed and stabbed those who were standing. Her elbows pushed and plunged through every opening available. And with every inch she claimed, a small part of Mildred was screeching and pleading for mercy.
Because- Well-
All her life, Mildred always had to apologize for her size.
Everything about her was just a bit off.
Big hips but not much of an ass. Great thighs but no hourglass waist. Small shoulders but no decent sized breasts to offset them. She was pear-shaped, hipsy, which was fine, respectable in other lands but here in Central- Mildred broke things when she sat down. She tore clothing. Often she ran around with tears that split the back of anything she was wearing not custom-made.
And of course, if one compared her to the average Centralrian, she had to be a foreigner. People from Central were not kind to foreigners.
Long black hair that fell to her waist. Round face. Peachy skin. Great height.
People from Central either had skin as white as moon-dust or as black as night-ash and they wouldn't accept anyone that who was too out of line. Her pink, almost orange, skin might have let her pass their standards but her height and that dark, dark hair. No. A foreigner she was. Her birth certificate didn't count. Her parents didn't count. Her childhood of living in Central didn't count.
