Here's an excerpt from one of my books. I forget which one. I've done so bloody many. I'll put a link somewhere if I can be bothered. Arghhh. One of those two surviving shoots just dropped off. I know what book it is and I can be bothered. It's here:
An extract from Morpheus in the Underground
The alarm punches my ears. Another day. I shower, sink a black coffee, don an anonymous grey suit, and lose myself in a compacted rainbow of commuters.
Warm ozone rushes by, wheels screech and doors fizz open. I time the swirling human wave to perfection and surf aboard. The packed carriage rattles confidently through the black maze of underground tunnels. I'm jostled, but hang onto the overhead leather strap and take a moment to look around. Morning noon and night are indistinguishable down here. Always the same artificial light. Headphones and sunglasses, newspapers, books, pulled-down hats and face-robbing hoods silently scream their meaning: don't look at me; don't talk to me; don't engage with me. Such intimate solitude in a teeming city of ten million is the modern norm.
Perfume. I don't look around; I don't need to. In my peripheral vision, I see her unmistakable halo of blonde hair. Will she cry out? Scream? Turn me in? There is nowhere to run. I freeze, hold my breath, waiting to see if she will be predator or prey.
Neither. The hand on my crotch is unambiguous. I breathe again before I pass out. She toys with the burgeoning bulge as though manipulating Chinese balls, occasionally pausing to test the progress of my erection. I begin to sweat and self-consciously shuffle my feet, glance around the carriage, but everyone is oblivious; they're lost in music, a paperback, The Times, daydreams, deep personal thoughts, or merely sleep.
She is facing my right shoulder, her right arm pressed into my hip as her right hand does its secret work. I am surrounded on all sides by swaying bodies whose expressions, like hers, are blank, unreadable. Though I'm now staring at the perfect beauty of her face, she never returns my gaze, appears completely detached.
I reciprocate, best I can in this cramped spot and she lets me. Turning my right hand outwards, I find the bulge of her pubic bone, slip two fingers between her thighs and gently massage her through her dress. Fuck, I want her.
The steady rhythm of wheels on track provide the perfect soundtrack to my lowering zip. I hold my breath for fear of giving myself away with unseemly gasps. Panic starts to rise and conjures images of last night's debacle; of her surprise, surrender, submission and her cries of rape, of my terror-stricken dash to safety. I am furious but impotent, totally in her grip, both physically and metaphorically. She pops the button at my waist and her cold hand steals into my pants.
How many men does she play with? How many are under her spell? For now, I don't give a fuck, merely stand here in this crowded place with a gorgeous woman's hand tight around my dick, thanking God she chose me today.
She grasps me with her fingers and pulls down hard on the shaft, baring the tip, then proceeds to draw circles on the sensitive underside with the pad of her thumb. This is exquisite. I've had sexual encounters in some risky places, but nothing like this. Now her thumb moves quickly, insistently up and down, while her fingers apply even more downwards pressure. Again I check my breathing, carefully glance around to gauge others' awareness of what is happening, but they are too wrapped in their own reveries to care. Her hand slides further down till her fingers cup my balls and she wanks me with short, sharp up and down movements of her palm. Fuck. Here I cum.
I black out, aware only of the leather strap digging into my palm, my feet on the trembling floor, and the pulsing pleasure in my groin that pumps cum to fuck knows where. As vision returns, I become aware of my heaving breaths and throbbing head and again take stock of my surroundings.
'You cumming?'
She says it loud enough for everyone to hear. Her unexpected words make me jump. I instinctively try to pull my zip up, but it snags. The creamy jism that has spattered against my shirt is now sticking it to my belly. Cum is on my hand, my trousers and God knows where else.
'I said, are you cumming?'
She cocks her head, speaks directly to me then sucks her thumb, licks her wrist, laughs uproariously. People are frowning, craning necks, and lowering papers.
'Oh, is this our station?'
I stammer clumsily, trying to defuse a potentially explosive situation. There could be splashes of semen on any of the people around me. I have to get out of here and quickly.
The train shudders and squeals to a standstill. I button up my jacket, thrust one hand into a trouser pocket to hold them up and tumble out of the door after her. She's grabbed my hand and is dragging me after her. Laughter and euphoria cause her to stumble, but she keeps her feet. I push her through a stream of humanity and up against the white tiled wall, hold her to me, using her as a shield against prying eyes. My crotch feels exposed, dishevelled and disgusting. I need to sort myself out.
'What the fuck is this? After last night, the screams, the shouts of rape?' I spit the words into her ear. 'Who the fuck are you?'
'What? Didn't you enjoy that? I did. Very much so.'
'Of course I fucking enjoyed it, but last night was terrifying. Why me? Why me? Why here? What are you doing to me?'
Suddenly very serious, she looks directly into my eyes. A faint sneer twists her lovely face and she straightens, grows before me and takes control.
'There are many of you and only one of me. Be grateful I chose you and enjoy me while you can. I will never be predictable, will never be tamed, will never be owned. Isn't this what you dream of? The surprise? The passion? The excitement? I know it is. You want this, crave this...'
'The fantasy is great, yeah, and you're gorgeous and know it... but you go too far. You're out of control. I'm not fucking playing anymore.'
I shake my head, push her away, cover myself best I can and make for the toilets.
Her taunting laughter stops me in my tracks.
'You'll play. I have photos, cum samples, DNA from my pussy... your balaclava. You just wanked on me on the tube, for fuck's sake. Pervert. I own you. Where are you going to hide? How can you stop me? You can't even dream your own dreams...'
I avoid the peering eyes of curious commuters and leave her to her monologue. The toilet is my sanctuary. I clean myself up and go to work.
An extract from Morpheus in the underground, a short story from the Sensual ghosts anthology. See link above.
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