Ripped Tights and Freight Trains

She didn’t have to say anything, I just . . . felt her.   She walked up to where I was playing, just stood there framed by the smudged glass of the empty store window. Maybe it was the way she stood, eyes shuttered, looking down at me like she wanted to say something or wanted me to say something.  I liked what I saw, nice rack beneath the short furry white jacket and a pair of long shapely legs in ripped tights and shit-kickers.  I figured she had a sense of humor in her Alice in Wonderland meets Mad Max getup.   She had breezed by earlier, and dropped a handful of heavy coins.  They bounced around on the already scarred felt of my guitar case, clinked together like the misshapen synthetic sounds of a poorly laid track.

The sound was jarring; I almost stopped playing, but I didn’t.  That time, she didn’t even stop to listen, just kept walking.  I liked the way the pleats on the back of her little skirt flared out just over her ass.  Long strides, she didn’t even stop to look both ways at the alley that separated the buildings.  The crazy ladder pattern of her black tights was worn away on the inside of her thighs, or maybe she had just shredded or slashed them.  Short threads dangled and gaped around the two smooth planes of bare skin.  Naked thighs pressed and slid together in a slow easy kiss as I held the guitar’s neck high and let loose a killer blues run.  She still didn’t turn around.

It was getting dark when she came back and I was getting ready to pack it up.  A guy and a girl in jeans and matching pea coats, and an older black man had stopped to listen.  The pea coat guy had dropped a ten into the case so I’d given them a show, but it had been a long day.  Besides, the sky had gone gray early and the air was cool and moist like snow was coming so I ended with a flourish designed to let them know I was done.  That’s when she strode up and stood next to the window looking down at me.  This time she had a huge purse that looked like it was made out of a Gypsy quilt.  She slid it behind her as she leaned against the plate glass of the empty storefront crushing the little pleats.

I looked at her, raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t say anything.  The old black guy grinned up at her, and she smiled back at him and nodded as he turned and hobbled away.  I gathered up my money, shoved it into my pocket and put my guitar in its case.  By the time I stood up, she was standing at the entrance to the alley.  Eyebrows raised, she tilted her head toward the darkness and walked into it.

At first, I faltered, wondering if this was a set-up, if she had somebody back there to help her relieve me of my hard earned cash, but I remembered the way the pleats batted against her high round ass as she walked.  In the dim light, I could see the slow slide of her pale thighs.  I followed her.

Clumps of ice mingled with dried mud made the ground lumpy and the going slow as I picked my way down the short alley.  There wasn’t much behind the storefront.  The stretch of weeds and bits of grass was a frozen tundra.  Snow covered railroad tracks ran along the back.     When I rounded the building, she had already started to climb the rickety wooden porch cum fire escape that clung precariously to the back of the building.  She stopped at the first landing, pulled a fleece throw out of the quilted bag, and plopped it on the edge of the narrow set of planks before swinging her legs over the edge and sitting down.

I stood near the corner of the building waiting to see who else would appear, and watching her as she swung her legs in silence.  Finally, I tread across the tundra and propped my guitar against the side of the stairs near where she sat.  She still didn’t say anything so I stood in front of her, and with my hands in my pockets, I stared at her and waited for her to speak.  She looked down, watching her feet dangle.  At one point she even looked up at the darkening sky, but she never looked directly at me.  It was as though she was pretending I wasn’t there.  After a few minutes of that, I just stepped forward, fitted my hips between her legs and put my arms around her.  I could feel the fullness of her breasts against my chest.  I liked the give, soft, but firm.   I hugged her tighter.  She was warm.  Maybe it was the fuzzy coat or the fleece throw she had pulled up around her hips and back, but she was so warm that I was beginning to thaw and it seemed like steam was starting to rise around us.

Strangely, her nose was cold when she nuzzled my neck.  It jolted like a surprise, like she had spoken.  Like she was saying hi, I’m . . . I held her tighter and she opened her legs wider, fitting her thighs around mine, welcoming me.  I snuggled closer.  She tightened the muscles of her thighs, squeezing.   The movement drew my jeans tight over my swelling cock.  I could smell her heat, like tart peach cobbler, warm, sweet, and sticky.  My lower half was straining towards her, the old zipper threatening to come undone.  My hands slid under the skirt and there was nothing there but the tattered threads of her tights and the soft chilly flesh of her ass, round and supple.  I squeezed and she scooted even closer rubbing herself against the flap of my jeans.

The zipper seemed to slide down by itself.  Chilly fingertips danced lightly over my cock.   I tugged the lone condom out of my jeans pocket before my jeans, shorts and all, dropped to my knees.  As I slipped the latex into place, she tugged the throw higher around us.  Its ends fluttered just below my ass.  A crisp breeze sliced at my thighs, but I ignored it and leaned in to press the knob of my cock past warm slippery thighs in search of oven-baked cobbler.  Her mouth opened on my cheek, moist and hot, as the oven door opened and I burrowed in.  My hands gripped her warming ass as I pulled her even closer in an effort to touch bottom before rearing back to find my rhythm.  The steam was obscuring my vision or maybe it was the snow.  Soft bits of white landed on my eyelashes.  But there was definitely steam and it was coming off her. I could feel its moist heat rising around us.

At first, there was only darkness, silence, and our little pocket of heat.  I burrowed deeper into her, my hands gripping firm round cheeks, pulling her closer, the muscles of my ass clenching and releasing as I thrust into her tight heat.  My feet fought the slippery ice beneath them as I tried to maintain my balance.  The crunching sound of the icy ground, the smack of my groin against hers, moist damp skin against sticky moist dampness, the thump and thrust of the rickety wooden porch, music.   And then the train came, the whoosh and jangle.  I was right along side it, matching its speed, a freight train climbing a steep hill, huffing and chugging as I made my way round the bend of the mountain.  She pulled me closer; her small hands on my back urging me forward.  The train whooshed past, all lights and speed, and then the long, long whistle.   She cried out an odd soprano riff that drew me forward.  The wooden slants of the porch rattled and shook as I stoked the furnace, and our train picked up speed, burrowing down the track.  She was breathing hard, hot short breaths in my ear.  Her heat surrounded me; long legs pulled me forward.  The walls of her sex tugged and squeezed tight, tighter, hot, hotter.  Her breath caught and I sank deeper; my mouth on hers, sucking her wet heat, her hands on my back, my ass, pulling me forward.  I held on, my fingers caught somewhere between cloth and smooth skin.  I was a long dark train, moving at light speed towards a burning star.  Her lips were there again, her tongue, hot, and then that soprano riff blew it all apart.  I fell forward nearly crushing her as the whistle shrilled long and hard in my head and the steam rose up around us.

After awhile, her nose, warmer now, nudged my neck.  Her lips found mine all warm breath and smooth tongue that ended in a little nip on my bottom lip that made me smile.  Then the palms of her hands flattened against my chest as she pulled her legs up and away leaving my hips chilled.  Standing on the narrow landing, she stuffed her little blanket into the quilted bag.

It was cold.  My ass was out and she was making her way down the rickety stairs, furry coat buttoned tight and quilted bag over her shoulder.  I tugged the latex off and chucked it under the landing.  Then I pulled my pants and shorts up in one swift shrug, righting myself as quickly as I could.  But she was halfway across the icy tundra before I zipped my pants.  I started after her and nearly fell on my ass.  Then I remembered my guitar.  By the time I retrieved it, she was gone.



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