>> PIECE OFFERING (closed for RHOVAN) <<

[shereads]

R: This closed thread is in honor of my Weevil Genius. His wit. His brilliance. His skills as a writer. His penis. And to congratulate him for surviving his Quarter-Life Crisis with no recorded fatalities.

Rhovan, should you choose to participate, this is how the thread works.

1) This thread is a gift without strings. If you can't play right now, let the thread drift off into the archives.

2) You will be given a choice of three fantasy scenarios. Please don’t make your decision until you’ve seen all three.

3) If you like one of the three, and want exclusive rights to your fantasy, post your reply within 48 hours of the posting time for my third scenario. Otherwise, Shereads retains ownership of all three fantasies, and may use any of them for an invitation-only thread…No offense will be read into a refusal to post, and if you change your mind later you can choose from either of the two unused fantasies. (Keep in mind that Shereads is statistically past her sexual peak (!!) and likely to lose interest any decade now. So don't wait too long, okay?)

4) No re-gifting. With Christmas just around the corner, and knowing how difficult it can be to shop for coworkers, casual friends, and your cousins, I must stress that being re-gifted would shatter my confidence.

5) How to play:

• Choose from one of three fantasy scenarios posted below. Please don’t choose until all three are posted. Here’s an advance peek at the working titles:

>> “Sex-Starved Exec & Subway Thugs”

>> “Stranded on the Planet of Men Ruled by their Penises”

>> “The Object of Worship”

• When you’ve made your choice, "quote" or paste my 1st post at the top of your 1st reply.

• There is a limit of 8 posts per player. Please number your posts.

What'll it be, Rho? Door Number One? The dinette set? The trip to Hawaii? Or "none for me, thanks; I have all I can handle with the Jake & Fran wedding at Broken Wing, plus I have to clip my toenails this weekend.”

 

[shereads]

Sex-Starved Exec & Subway Thugs

Leigh McKay, age 36. Honey-blonde hair, long and lush when she lets it down after work and on the weekends. On weekdays, like today, Leigh wears her hair pulled back in an elegant but no-nonsense French twist. She’s tall, slender, and in great shape despite the long hours at her desk, thanks to the strict discipline imposed by her personal trainer, Lars. Until recently, that is.

Months ago, Leigh and Lars became lovers. Three weeks ago, Leigh found out that she wasn’t the only client Lars was working out with in the bedroom as well as the gym. She gave him an ultimatum; he called her bluff.

Damn. Now here she is, successful in business but a loser in love; spoiled by sex with a powerful, dominating man; alone for weeks – her statistical sexual prime passing her by! – and unable to find solace even with her trusty vibrator. It’s just too depressing, trying to replace a real man with an object.

Just when Leigh believed things couldn’t get worse, things do. Tonight while she was working late, the city was being subjected to an unseasonably early snow storm. Unable to hail a cab, her winter coat forgotten at home this morning, her feet freezing in sexy but insubstantial 3-inch heels - and the rest of her freezing in a stylishly snug-fitting, short-skirted black pinstripe “power suit” – Leigh has never felt so powerless. She’s reduced to riding the subway. Something she hasn’t done in years, not since her purse was stolen by a knife-wielding kid.

At this hour, even with a near-blizzard outside, there are few other riders: an elderly gentleman, smelling of whiskey, who’s slept through three stops; a banker- or broker-type, well-dressed, graying just a bit at the temples and handsome, before he disappeared behind the Wall Street Journal; and four young thugs, whose stares and whispered comments have begun to make Leigh increasingly nervous.

Her station will be next, thank God. Leigh leaves her seat and stands near the door, ready to make a quick exit. With one hand she steadies herself on a pole; with the other arm, she clasps her expensive laptop case to her chest. With a cold thrill of fear, she recalls the knifepoint robbery three years ago. What a relief that this unplanned subway trip will soon be ov –

oh shit

The train stops, still in the tunnel, and everything goes dark for a moment. The young thugs are surprised to silence for a few seconds. The only sounds are the soft, steady snore of the whiskey connoisseur at the opposite end of the car; and the crackle of Banker’s newspaper as he sets it aside, waiting in the dark with the rest of them for something to break the suspense.

A red-tinged emergency lamp comes on, casting just enough light to make the stranded subway car look like a set from an old Stallone movie.

Speaking of Stallone…the largest and most vocal of the four young thugs could pass for Rocky’s bad-boy twin. He’s the first to break the silence:

“Fuck this shit.” He laughs, without much humor. Probably embarrassed to have been startled to silence a moment ago like everybody else.

His friends laugh, parroting the one who’s clearly their leader. “Yeah, fuck this shit.” “Did you hear Paulo callin’ for his mama?” “Fuck you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the leader commands them. And they do.

Leigh can’t even pretend not to notice that he’s staring directly at her, looking her up and down with absolute boldness, as if assessing a car or a motorcyle or something else he could easily take. She stares back for a moment, trying to look stern, and is met with a smile that would be sexy on anyone less dangerous. She shudders and looks away.

“Are you okay?” Banker-Type has mercifully noticed Leigh’s dilemma, and moves as if to stand up.

“Sit down, asshole,” says Thug Leader. With a few short strides, he’s standing beside Leigh, towering over her – and covering her hand, the one gripping the metal pole, with his own, enormous, tattooed hand.

With his other hand, he reaches down and behind her, his arm brushing the back of her skirt, and takes the laptop case.

“You won’t need this for a while, Miss Uptight.” He tosses the leather case to one of his grinning cronies. The other two are suddenly flanking Banker-Type, and one of them has produced a small handgun.

“Frisk the asshole and put his briefcase with hers.”

Held at gunpoint Banker can do nothing but comply. His costly wool coat goes onto the pile of loot, along with his wallet, a silver money-clip, two cigars and lighter.

When Thug Leader accepts a lit cigar from one of his minions, Banker reaches the limit of his tolerance for armed robbery. “You young shit,” he says. “You won’t know the difference between a Cohiba and a Camel.”

The younger man laughs, loosens his grip on Leigh’s hand, and tastes the smoke. He makes a point of savoring it for a moment, and then exhales a generous cloud of fine Cohiba essence down onto Leigh’s honey-blonde head, which barely reaches to his shoulder.

She’s shaking, but the insult – and the intimacy of it – are too much. Leigh finds her voice, her Executive Bitch voice, the one that’s brought many an underling to heel:

“He’s right. You’re a punk. Get your punk hands off of me, keep the laptop, and I’ll forget we ever met.”

He crowds closer to her back and brings his cigar hand up to meet the other. Now he’s pressed to her back and ass, wrapped around her, and if she moves away she’ll be pressed uncomfortably against the pole.

“You’re an unfriendly cunt, aren’t you…”

“Fuck her, Javier.”

“Let’s all fuck her.”

“Shut up, Paulo…We might not have time for that. We might not even be good enough for this unfriendly bitch. Bring Asshole over here and see if she’d rather suck some executive cock, or take a puff of this fine Cohiba.”

 

[shereads]

Stranded on the Planet Where Men are Ruled By Their Penises

Arial Black, student pilot. Gorgeous redhead. Confident, a little arrogant sometimes, but generally well-liked by her peers. Described by her instructor as “a natural pilot.”

Days or maybe weeks ago, she’d been an hour away from her first solo.

All that stood between Arial and admission to advanced training was a simple circumnavigation of a small moon. She’d flown the same route with her instructor a dozen times. Arial could fly this with her eyes closed.

“You’re too confident by half,” he told her, taking the stern tone expected in these final, critical pre-flight briefings. “No matter that you know the routine, it’s entirely different on your own for the first time. You’re good, Student Black. But even the best pilots will tell you, that first solo can be a bitch.”

“So can I, Colonel,” the redhead replied, donning her flight helmet.

She could be a bitch, yes. But she was good-humored about it. And when a woman looked like Arial Black, a few sharp edges could be considered part of her charm.

The Colonel had kept their relationship platonic, as with all of his students. But he always felt a twinge of regret when those glorious, red-gold curls disappeared beneath the helmet. With her hair covered, it was difficult to know where to look - her glittering purple-blue eyes, her full, pink lips…and where not to look: all that cleavage.

“Zip up your flight suit, Black. You’ll catch cold and miss your graduation party.”

“Not a chance, Colonel. I’ll see you in nine.point.five hours at Pilots ‘n Pussies. The first round is on me.”
-----------------

What’s on me?

Something was crawling on the back of her head. Tickling; a spider or something. Arial tried to brush it off – but couldn’t move her arm.

Or her other arm. Or her legs.

And she couldn’t see…Yes, she could make out shapes, as if she were viewing them through a double-layer of dark gauze.

Oh hell. Now she remembered.

Rounding the dark side, more than halfway through her solo flight, Arial had felt something strike the ship – space detritus, she’d thought at the time; this moon’s thin atmosphere was cluttered with construction debris. She’d been knocked off course, which wouldn’t have been disastrous if not for damage to the ship’s navigation systems. Arial could have handled that too – she really was quite good at this, and hard to rattle – but with no way to communicate with the base and navigating “by the seat of her pants,” as The Colonel would say, she’d been too distracted to notice the unfamiliar capture ship closing in on her. Until it was too late.

Some kind of drugged gas had been injected into the cabin after her ship was scooped into the mouth of the capture ship, and Arial hadn’t been aware of anything else for an unknown amount of time after that. She’d briefly regained consciousness in what looked like some sort of ship’s infirmary. Resting on a soft, heated mattress, she would have been comfortable, maybe even calm, if not for three facts:

First of all, she was naked. Even Arial couldn’t help staring for a moment at her magnificent breasts, standing at attention like two plump soldiers with raspberry-colored hats. Damn these sensitive nipples! What an absurd time to be aroused.

Secondly, she couldn’t move. Arial realized immediately that she’d been strapped to the mattress, possibly for her own safety – the ship was entering an atmosphere, and it wasn’t an entirely smooth ride.

The third, and perhaps least comfortable factor, was the presence in the infirmary of several tall, well-built men, as naked as Arial herself. Their backs were to their patient and/or captive, and they were currently bent over a chart or something, pointing at it and carrying on an apparently business-like discussion. To a man, they had the finest bodies Arial had ever seen.

Look at the ass on that one…

No, wait – that one!

That one happened to glance back over his shoulder and saw Arial watching, her purple eyes alert and glittering.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said in perfect, unaccented English. (Her solo flight had experienced enough complications; it didn’t need a linguistic one.)

Then he turned around.

Holy Nondenominational Creator Being!!

His penis was the size of – of – It was too damn big, that’s how big it was!

Arial had always been a great fan of penises, penises of every shape and color and length and girth and variety. But this was ridiculous. This wasn’t a reproductive organ, it was a Weapon of Mass Destruction.

“Who – Oh my god. Who are you people and what – Oh my god…”

The male looked at her with bemusement, as if Arial had just said something adorable or had performed a trick.

The others walked over to join him. Mercifully, their units were within the familiar humanoid size range. One was rather threateningly broad, but at least it wasn’t long enough to puncture a lung in the event that he – that she –

How odd that they were all fully erect – primed and ready for action, by the look of them – and yet none of the men wore an aroused expression. With their matter-of-fact behavior and calm demeanor, you’d think that having a rampant, angry erection was of no more consequence that having a half-day’s growth of beard.

The one with the perversely large penis addressed the others, although he was looking at Arial and clearly liking what he saw.

“This one has unusual eyes. The rest of her is nice too.”

That’s when Arial noticed something truly strange: his voice, a perfectly normal-sounding voice, was somehow disembodied. As if it didn’t belong to his face. Yes, the man’s lips and teeth and tongue were forming the sounds, and his mouth was moving appropriately, but Arial had the queerest sense that the voice was not his. As if he were nothing more than a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“You really shouldn’t be awake yet, dear. We’ll land soon, but our trip is far from over.”

The voice was coming from him, but it wasn’t his. Something or someone was speaking through him.

He took a step forward, and the gigantic penis swayed and dipped.

“Stay away from me with that – that hideous THING!”

“I beg your pardon?” he said. Or rather, someone said, using him as a mouthpiece. “Are you referring to my TCS, or to me?”

“Your TCS? What the hell is your TCS?”

The group laughed amiably.

“Forgive me, dear. I had forgotten that your planet doesn’t know about us yet. If we had known there were humanoid females there of your quality, we’d have raided it long before now…My TCS. Transportation and Communication System. He’s the fellow you think is in charge here.”

She could hardly concentrate on what he was saying, with his unnerving male organ twitching and lurching about only a few feet away.

When he speaks, the veins pulse…in time with his words…

“What are you talking about? Transportation and – and – Would you please not bring your penis any closer? It’s nothing personal.”

The pleasant face laughed again, it’s dark eyes twinkling with humor. “Dear,” said the disembodied voice, “It is the I, the Penis, whom you are addressing. This fellow is nothing but the body I use to obtain, consume and process nutrition, and of course to locate, obtain and, ‘date’ attractive women.”

“Captain, we’ll entering the lower atmosphere in three minutes.”

“Secure yourselves for landing, gentlemen….I have to leave you now, Student Black. You’ll be breathing Tranquil Gas again for a while, to spare you any further distress or discomfort until we arrive in St. Phallus…My name’s Dick, by the way.”

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

The thing on her head, Arial soon realized, was an admiring male hand, stroking her silky red-gold curls.

The sensation of looking through a double-thickness of dark gauze was caused by a blindfold made from a double-thickness of dark gauze.

“You’re awake again, Student Black. Just in time, too. We'll be arriving in St. Phallus soon. Sorry about the blindfold; a necessary precaution. We've found that it reduces the number of escape attempts if our dates don't see the roads in and out of the city."

She recognized the voice as Dick's. His hands – it’s hand? – continued to stroke and explore, one toying with her hair, and the other extending a gentle but firm fingertip to caress the smooth pinkness of Arial’s full, lower lip.

It wasn’t a bad way to regain consciousness. At least she couldn’t see Dick’s…Correction; she couldn’t see Dick. Cradled in the arms of Dick’s Transportation and Communication System, Arial wondered if it had been days or weeks since she'd been overdue for her graduation party.

You were right, Colonel. That first solo flight can be a bitch.

 

[shereads]

The Object of Worship

A sort of XXX Gulliver's Travels, Rhovan's third and final choice of fantasy scenarios was inspired by a work of erotic art on the site “Pornotopia.”

Remember, Rho, you have 48 hours after the time of this post to make your choice and post your reply. "Quote" or paste your selected fantasy at the top of your reply so the story can be read without interruption. See you there!

The Object of Worship

A 19th Century explorer named Gulliver, having survived the sinking of his ship in a violent storm, washes ashore on an uncharted island. Dehydrated and suffering from exposure and shock, Gulliver drifts in and out of consciousness for days. He is beset by strange visions, by turns comforting and disturbing, but overwhelmingly erotic. Gulliver imagines being tended by tiny hands who gently bathe his cuts and scratches; and when a deep wound on his foot has to be cauterized and stitched, Gulliver dreams that he is being soothed with kisses from soft, pink mouths, so tiny and delicate that they might be the kisses of butterflies.

As the days go by, he becomes aware that an attempt is being mounted to move him. Enormous effort is expended in building an elaborate system of pulleys and woven slings, assembled to crude but functional wheels carved from wood. Slowly, as the traveler regains consciousness in small increments, his body is hoisted and moved a few yards each day, until it can rest comfortably on a bed of soft, fragrant grass. A tent is erected a few feet above his prone body, of sufficient size to protect Gulliver from direct sun and to keep him dry during the island’s occasional mists and light rains. At night, when there is a chill in the air, tiny bonfires encircle him at a safe distance, just close enough to keep him comfortably warm.

Several times each day, Gulliver is fed broth and given fresh spring water. These are poured into his mouth from containers no larger than a thimble, one after the other, until he has had his fill and refuses to take more. The process sometimes takes hours, and seems to be carried out by a sort of “fire brigade” of tiny caretakers.

One day, Gulliver becomes aware of a sweet taste at his lips, and opens his eyes to find a tiny, golden-haired woman, no taller than the length of a man’s hand, attempting to feed him a peeled grape. In her hands, the fruit is as large as a honeydew melon.

“Where am I,” he croaks, his voice harsh from misuse.

A sea of tiny voices squeal with delight, and the girl with the grape falls back in shock – landing on her knees upon Gulliver’s left shoulder. The grape rolls into his open mouth, and he swallows it greedily – hoping that a diet of solid food might bring an end to these disturbing visions.

“Our Master awakens,” the golden girl chirps, prostrating herself and kissing his shoulder. “Let us worship him.”

Well, maybe not an abrupt end. Granted, the visions are disturbing, but they’re not entirely unbearable. And his tiny hostesses have gone to a lot of trouble on his behalf.

Gulliver would hate to be rude…

“The Object of Worship!” cries another tiny female. “It is upright again!”

“Eeeeee!” Hundreds of musical, feminine voices, birdlike in their tiny chirpiness, squeal in fear and excitement. “It is angry with us!

“The Object is angry and must be appeased!”

“But how?”

“Someone must ask its Master…You do it, Aislinn”

“She’s right, Aislinn. Master accepted the grape from your hands. Perhaps you can intercede for us and beg his mercy!”

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

We do not know Your name, Master. We only know that you are a god – the one foretold in the legends. You were sent here to announce that your servants have served their sentence and can be forgiven and reunited!

For our lifetime and the lives of our mothers, all females of our race have lived on this island, the men and boys on another. The elders among our grandparents’ generation said that our lascivious nature had offended the gods, and that we must live apart until even the nature of our sin was forgotten.

O Master, there is so much that we do not understand. We only know that all of us – hundreds of us, from the most experienced of women who are still alive, to the most ignorant girls of 18, have been drawn to your special Object as if by instinct, since the day we found you on the beach.

We have treated the Object with utmost respect, only bathing it each day as we tended to your needs. And yet, the Object of Worship has grown angrier with us each time It has awakened! We do not know how we have offended it, Master. You yourself know how careful we have been to speak quietly and touch you softly until you were ready to awaken. But your special Object has been awakening for days now, each time one of us so much as brushed past it when bathing you.

Each time it awakens, it becomes a darker and angrier shade of red! The veins throb and the Object seems to lean toward us and then away from us if one of your servants dares to stand too close! Each time this happens, the Object appears to become even taller and more threatening than before! We have tried not to touch it, since that seems to offend, but out of respect for you, Master, we have had to bathe it each day.

Only the bravest among us were willing to risk its wrath, especially after...we - we somehow made the Object weep! Forgive us! We were heartbroken to have upset it so, and none of us has approached it alone since then, for fear of its wrath!

Master, your servants are so grateful that you are awake. We wish only to please you, and to fully atone for our grandmothers' sins of "lasciviousness."

We beg you, Master. Tell us how we can please you and appease the Object of Worship, so that we can earn the right to be reunited with our men. Hundreds of us await your command...

Aislinn. 7 inches tall, 1/4 lb., blond, 19 years old. Like all of her generation of women, Aislinn has never seen a man. And none of them has ever seen such a wondrous Object!

 

[Rhovan]

Post 1 of 8, Series 1 of 3: 1

Leigh McKay, age 36. Honey-blonde hair, long and lush when she lets it down after work and on the weekends. On weekdays, like today, Leigh wears her hair pulled back in an elegant but no-nonsense French twist. She’s tall, slender, and in great shape despite the long hours at her desk, thanks to the strict discipline imposed by her personal trainer, Lars. Until recently, that is.

Months ago, Leigh and Lars became lovers. Three weeks ago, Leigh found out that she wasn’t the only client Lars was working out with in the bedroom as well as the gym. She gave him an ultimatum; he called her bluff.

Damn. Now here she is, successful in business but a loser in love; spoiled by sex with a powerful, dominating man; alone for weeks – her statistical sexual prime passing her by! – and unable to find solace even with her trusty vibrator. It’s just too depressing, trying to replace a real man with an object.

Just when Leigh believed things couldn’t get worse, things do. Tonight while she was working late, the city was being subjected to an unseasonably early snow storm. Unable to hail a cab, her winter coat forgotten at home this morning, her feet freezing in sexy but insubstantial 3-inch heels - and the rest of her freezing in a stylishly snug-fitting, short-skirted black pinstripe “power suit” – Leigh has never felt so powerless. She’s reduced to riding the subway. Something she hasn’t done in years, not since her purse was stolen by a knife-wielding kid.

At this hour, even with a near-blizzard outside, there are few other riders: an elderly gentleman, smelling of whiskey, who’s slept through three stops; a banker- or broker-type, well-dressed, graying just a bit at the temples and handsome, before he disappeared behind the Wall Street Journal; and four young thugs, whose stares and whispered comments have begun to make Leigh increasingly nervous.

Her station will be next, thank God. Leigh leaves her seat and stands near the door, ready to make a quick exit. With one hand she steadies herself on a pole; with the other arm, she clasps her expensive laptop case to her chest. With a cold thrill of fear, she recalls the knifepoint robbery three years ago. What a relief that this unplanned subway trip will soon be ov –

oh shit

The train stops, still in the tunnel, and everything goes dark for a moment. The young thugs are surprised to silence for a few seconds. The only sounds are the soft, steady snore of the whiskey connoisseur at the opposite end of the car; and the crackle of Banker’s newspaper as he sets it aside, waiting in the dark with the rest of them for something to break the suspense.

A red-tinged emergency lamp comes on, casting just enough light to make the stranded subway car look like a set from an old Stallone movie.

Speaking of Stallone…the largest and most vocal of the four young thugs could pass for Rocky’s bad-boy twin. He’s the first to break the silence:

“Fuck this shit.” He laughs, without much humor. Probably embarrassed to have been startled to silence a moment ago like everybody else.

His friends laugh, parroting the one who’s clearly their leader. “Yeah, fuck this shit.” “Did you hear Paulo callin’ for his mama?” “Fuck you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the leader commands them. And they do.

Leigh can’t even pretend not to notice that he’s staring directly at her, looking her up and down with absolute boldness, as if assessing a car or a motorcyle or something else he could easily take. She stares back for a moment, trying to look stern, and is met with a smile that would be sexy on anyone less dangerous. She shudders and looks away.

“Are you okay?” Banker-Type has mercifully noticed Leigh’s dilemma, and moves as if to stand up.

“Sit down, asshole,” says Thug Leader. With a few short strides, he’s standing beside Leigh, towering over her – and covering her hand, the one gripping the metal pole, with his own, enormous, tattooed hand.

With his other hand, he reaches down and behind her, his arm brushing the back of her skirt, and takes the laptop case.

“You won’t need this for a while, Miss Uptight.” He tosses the leather case to one of his grinning cronies. The other two are suddenly flanking Banker-Type, and one of them has produced a small handgun.

“Frisk the asshole and put his briefcase with hers.”

Held at gunpoint Banker can do nothing but comply. His costly wool coat goes onto the pile of loot, along with his wallet, a silver money-clip, two cigars and lighter.

When Thug Leader accepts a lit cigar from one of his minions, Banker reaches the limit of his tolerance for armed robbery. “You young shit,” he says. “You won’t know the difference between a Cohiba and a Camel.”

The younger man laughs, loosens his grip on Leigh’s hand, and tastes the smoke. He makes a point of savoring it for a moment, and then exhales a generous cloud of fine Cohiba essence down onto Leigh’s honey-blonde head, which barely reaches to his shoulder.

She’s shaking, but the insult – and the intimacy of it – are too much. Leigh finds her voice, her Executive Bitch voice, the one that’s brought many an underling to heel:

“He’s right. You’re a punk. Get your punk hands off of me, keep the laptop, and I’ll forget we ever met.”

He crowds closer to her back and brings his cigar hand up to meet the other. Now he’s pressed to her back and ass, wrapped around her, and if she moves away she’ll be pressed uncomfortably against the pole.

“You’re an unfriendly cunt, aren’t you…”

“Fuck her, Javier.”

“Let’s all fuck her.”

“Shut up, Paulo…We might not have time for that. We might not even be good enough for this unfriendly bitch. Bring Asshole over here and see if she’d rather suck some executive cock, or take a puff of this fine Cohiba.”



^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^



It had been a terrible week at work. George J. Jasper's week had gone downhill since Tuesday night. Monday was great, undeniably in the top five of George's best days ever. Had a good morning fuck, got a promotion at work, finished a file that had been kicking his ass for a month now. It was a great day. Tuesday was good, until he got home. His girlfriend had left him, apprently he wasn't 'new age' enough for her. He'd really liked this one. She was a contortionist. He didn't mind that she fucked her personal trainer on the side. He didn't care that she seemed to have a relationship with half the women on the floor of his building. But she left anyhow.

Wednesday morning George got pinned at work for some shoddy work on his file. It wasn't even his work, it was the work his assistant had submitted to him. That brought an inquiery, and lots of pressure at work. And to top all of that off, his cigar shoppe had apprently lost their connection for his favorite, illegal Cuban cigar. He had two left. Two; when he wanted to be smoking constantly. Not just constantly, but one in either hand, and quite possibly one in each nostral.

Then his company car was revoked, apprently his now ex-girlfriend's personal trainer had also been nailing his assistant. The assistant is now in a comfortable secretarial spot on the 53rd floor while George was steadily being worked on to be sent down to the 12th. At least he always left one of his nicer coats at the office, as when the snow fall surprised him, he wasn't left out in the cold. He was the expensively dressed broker to a T. He wore Bruno Magli Castrom shoes; a wool, grey bead striped suit of great expense, a tie with a solid good tie clip. His cuff links and buttons all matched, and worked well with the accessories he had picked out. It payed to dress nicely. Add a paper and a briefcase and you had George J. Jasper.

Working late now, because he was desperatly trying to drag his ass out of the hole his assistant had thrown him into. Plus he had nothing to go home for, and that is how he found himself on the train late at night. He wasn't that unsed to the train, as he hadn't always been a man of power or authority. Unfortunately, soon it looked like he again was going to be toppled from the ivory tower he had forged himself in this company. He sat as equally distant from everyone as he could, trying to avoid the small knot of young toughs, or the old, obviously drunk man who might wet himself at any moment. George unfolded his paper, and attempted to disappear from the train.

When the woman entered the train, he did however lower his paper to take in the view of her. Even while being collectively stabbed in the back by the women in his life, George could still appreciate a beautiful woman. Hair up, high off of her neck but in that, "I just did this in a moment," kind of look to it. She's tall, or at least medium height, considering the elevation of her shoes; and she was atheletic looking. Thin, but strong, but neither in excess. She wore a 'power suit' that had been modified from the origanl style in the late 80's and early 90's to something much more fashionable. She wore tight pinstripes, and the cut was modest yet daring, a half inch above her knee.

Gregory was oblivious to the train, trying to figure out if he could loose himself in pork futures, when the rustling of someone broke his concentraition. Moving the paper, and looking just over the edge of it, he noticed the woman moving towards the doors. Obviously she was next to get off, which both made George happy, and lament. There goes a very beautiful woman; no doubt her boyfriend likes her too. She didn't seem in her element, as she held her laptop case to her chest, and clung to the bar with white knuckling intensity.

Then the train slid to a hault, in the tunnel. The lights shut off, and the small knot of men suddenly stop talking. George hadn't even been aware of the noise they were making until it was suddenly silenced. The drunk didn't do anything other than slide sideways in his seat some, getting close enough to the angle needed before gravity pulled him out onto his side. George folded his paper and set it atop of his briefcase, as he wouldn't be able to read it any longer. A red light suddenly filled the car, much like the taudry lighting of some 19th century house of ill repute.

“Fuck this shit.” He laughs. Or barked. He obviously wasn't happy about being stuck in the subway car in the middle of the night.
“Yeah, fuck this shit," chimed in a smaller, albeit it still tough looking member of the group.
“Did you hear Paulo callin’ for his mama?” This one was obviously the instigator of most of the groups activities.
“Fuck you,” The as of yet silent one responds with more than a little anger.

“Shut the fuck up,” the leader speaks, and his followers obey. It really is an impressive look at the Alpha Male status as the rest, obviously more powerful in number, and at least one of them clearly larger in fact; bend to his will with little to no fighting. Undoubtably they worked together just like a pack of dogs, the one who could beat the rest of them one on one was the leader. And it was obvious who the leader was.

The leader moves towards the poor woman, staring at her as if he owned her. She tried to stare back, but it wasn't working and she cowed down in the face of the leaders smile. So nonchalant. So infuriating. George figured he had better do something, the poor woman looked to be shaking, and it wasn't fair for her to have to face this sort of thing alone.

“Are you okay?” George asked, surprised by the depth and timbre of his own voice. He wasn't trying to sound like a 'hero,' it just seemed he was sounding like that. But George was quickly shown the miscalculation that speaking was however, no matter how impressive his voice. He moved to get up, but was paused for a moment by the sudden snarl from the leader.

“Sit down, asshole,” the leader moved to the woman. He reached around her side and placed his hand over hers, effectively trapping her to the pole. He was taller than George expected, once he saw her standing next to the cowering woman. She looked quite a fright, but George didn't see how there was anything he could do. He however continued to stand, so he wasn't at such an obvious disadvantage. The leader was slipping his hand down behind the woman, then he gripped her laptop case and lifted it, moving to take it from her shoulder.

“You won’t need this for a while, Miss Uptight.” He threw the case to one of the guys, and George noticed the other two had flanked him. The smaller one had a gun, and George knew he was defeated. And there hadn't even been any fighting yet. He would of liked to kick someone's ass after the way this week was going.

“Frisk the asshole and put his briefcase with hers.” George suffered the frisking with stoic resolve, as the thug obviously had no idea what he was doing. He did however get Georges jacket, his wallet and money clip, the remainders of his cigars and his lighter. Curiously, the thug left his cigar cutter in his pocket. Not much good it was for anything other than finger removal, but it was a small victory. His first all week.

“You young shit. You won’t know the difference between a Cohiba and a Camel.” It was bad enough they took the cigar's from him, but when George watched the leader bite the end off of the cigar and spit it to the ground, George couldn't contain his fury anymore. He didn't like this situation one bit. And he didn't like how he both wanted to help the woman, and leave her behind. But the leader didn't care what George had to say, he just released the woman's hand and blew a lung full of cigar smoke onto her head. George watched it billow, then roll down the sides of her head and onto her shoulders -- mixing with her hair in a delicate and rapidly disappating haze about her shoulders.

“He’s right. You’re a punk. Get your punk hands off of me, keep the laptop, and I’ll forget we ever met.”

George was surprised, she had found her voice in admist her obvious fear, and it was indeed a good voice. Sultry. Low but not troublingly so; feminine but certainly not annoying. And she played the angry woman/mother/executive bit very well. Unfortunately, it had as much effect on the thugs as George's own voice did: that is to say, none at all. The thug just popped the cigar into his mouth, and pressed up against the back of the poor woman, holding onto the bar in front of her with two hands. His arms run under hers, to keep her from ducking down and under to get away, his groin and chest flush with her backside, his feet inbetween hers. It would have been touching had they been dating, or liked one another. Or even knew each other.

“You’re an unfriendly cunt, aren’t you…” The leader was speaking softly, and periliously close to the poor woman's ear.

“Fuck her, Javier.” There was that whiney instigator type fellow again. Always causing problems.

“Let’s all fuck her.” This one wasn't the brightest of the crowd, but he had figured out the situation handily enough.

“Shut up, Paulo…We might not have time for that. We might not even be good enough for this unfriendly bitch. Bring Asshole over here and see if she’d rather suck some executive cock, or take a puff of this fine Cohiba.” The leader was obviously unhappy, but he wasn't stupid. George felt the two guys grab either of his arms, and drag him towards the doors with the woman. He struggled a bit, but there wasn't anything he could do to stop his approach. He gave the woman an apologetic smile, and then he looked back to the leader.

"You know, your probably right. You aren't good enough for her. None of us are. You should just sit back down, and ponder why you aren't good enough. It'll be a learning experiance." The remark made little impact on the man, George could see. He obviously didn't understand it. But it did earn George a solid blow to the stomach, which left him hunched and gasping for several long moments. It also drew a small cry from the woman, but she stopped that to cough when the leader hit her in the face with a mist of cigar smoke.

The leader laughed and slipped his hand to the back of the poor woman's skirt again. He pressed his hand hard into her, as he leaned into her, holding her against the metal pole. She inhaled sharply, as the hand pressed firmly against her rump, then slipped down the back of her thigh. His fingers moved as he gripped and relaxed, and she just stood there, straight as an arrow and as tense as a bow string. George was slowly pulling himself upright as he could once again breath. He could see the paniced look on the woman's face as the thug continued to molest her backside.

Coughing, and trying to breath, George managed to get out his question. "So what is your intent then?" The thug lifted his hand, pulling the woman onto her toes with his grip on her panties through her skirt. "We are going to have some fun. By watching you have fun." George didn't understand, but the thugs were busy pulling him backwards on his heels and forcing him down into a seat. The leader lifted high still on the woman's panties until she wore a slightly pained expression and she was walking as high on her toes as possible. He walked her from the pole and towards George's seated position. He stops her a few feet in front of George and steps up close behind her again.

He releases her panties and his hand slips up and around her body until it rests firmly on her throat. He grips tight enough that she is having obvious trouble breathing, let alone speaking. Her feet shuffle as she gasps softly in his grip, her hands pulling at his fingers weakly. "You could have been nice to us, and we could of had some fun. But since your such a mean spirited bitch, we plan on showing you what you could of had. But now you have to have it with him. The limp-wristed-looking investment man. Now, down ya go honey." His grip didn't lesson, he just started to lower his hand. And she followed, as the rule of thumb is wherever one's head goes the rest would be wise to follow. Slowly she sank down to her knees, and the struggling George couldn't do anything to help her. It seemed like forever, but it really was just a matter of moments before she knelt between George's knees, with the lead thugs legs pressed hard against her back so she couldn't retreat. George just looked confused.

 

[shereads]

Subway/Leigh/post #2

Watching her would-be rescuer frisked at gunpoint, Leigh tried to imagine a less-than-fatal outcome. Maybe they’ll be satisfied with the robbery – it’s a lot of loot; a money clip, that’s good. Make them rich, friend. Maybe that’s all they -

Leader’s hand cupping her ass cheeks, first one, then the other, didn’t speak well for the Power of Positive Thinking.

“Fuck her, Javier."

Yes, perhaps she had been an unfriendly cunt. She'd been told she sounded curt sometimes, even bitchy...

“Let’s all fuck her.”

And no, this was not going to be just a robbery. Neither was the power going to come back on just in the nick of time, carrying the train safely to its station. Luck wasn’t running that way today.

“…might not even be good enough for this unfriendly bitch.” Javier’s groin was pressed to her ass, and Javier was growing more excited by the second with this impromptu get-together. Leigh felt herself redden with humiliation as the alpha thug rocked his erection against her body, insinuating its thickness into the slight valley created when her snug skirt gave way to its strength.

“…just sit back down,” Banker was saying something. Leigh noticed that his voice was admirably calm, a last-ditch attempt to calm the thugs. His instincts were good, but incorrect in this case, as Leigh knew from Leader’s increasingly intimate relationship with her ass.

Banker continued, “ “and ponder why you aren’t good enough. It’ll be a--”

Uh-oh.

“—learning experience.”

Leader’s signal was barely a nod, but it was all the permission Thug #3 needed to ratchet things up from strong-arm robbery to criminal assault.

“ooomm”

Jesus. She could almost feel the punch in the stomach herself, just from the nauseating sound of Thug’s fist rocketing into Banker’s flesh. The poor guy went to his knees, and Leigh hoped he was smart enough to stay there.

Have they already decided to kill us?

She tried to busy herself with envisioning uniformed Transit Authority and Con Ed employees working together as efficiently and purposefully as an army of ants, to get the trains moving again…How many trains, over how big an area? How long?

Stiff and cold as a mannequin, her blood iced with fear, Leigh was barely aware of what Javier was saying as he half-lifted and half-dragged her to stand between the prone man’s sprawled legs. Her not-quite-hero was looking about as happy as she was, but at least his eyes were alert and aware.

She snapped out of her protective daze when Javier gripped her throat, hard enough to bruise. He explained that this was happening because Leigh was a mean-spirited bitch. There was something about “fun,” and then Leigh was forced, slowly but relentlessly, to her knees.

“Down ya go, honey.” She didn’t go down easily; not because she was brave enough to be defiant anymore, but because she envisioned the gun being used now. With both victims on the floor. “Execution style,” is what the papers always called it. As if there were special “styles” of violent death.

If these were her last thoughts, they weren’t what she would have expected to be thinking in the moments before a sexual assault and an execution:

-filthy floor
-new stockings
-pink gum sticking to the toe of Javier’s shoe
-speaking of shoes, Bruno Magli!

“You won’t get much of a performance out of me, under the circumstances.” Banker was addressing Javier, but Javier’s attention was currently on Leigh. His hand was fisting in Leigh’s hair, tugging at her scalp. Hairpins dropped to the floor, loosening the French twist from its neat knot.

“That would be unfortunate, asshole,” the thug said. He wrapped a length of honey-blond hair around his hand and pulled backward, so that Leigh was looking up at him. The young man’s eyes would have been handsome in some other universe. Here, they were black stones, glittering with a particularly ugly variety of lust.

“What’s your name?” He knelt down beside Leigh, squatting on his heels, and took a leisurely taste of the cigar.

Thank god it’s cold weather, she thought. In hot weather, cigar smoke makes me nauseous.

“Leigh,” she said. Her voice sounded strangely calm despite the pain in her scalp, and the erratic drumming of her heart as it signaled to the rest of her body: oh-god-it’s-real-this-shit-is-really-happening!

“Asshole, this is Leigh. Leigh, meet Asshole. If you can make him cum before the lights come back on, I’ll let you live.”

“That is so fuckin’ cool!” said a thug from the sidelines, sounding way too young to be enjoying this – and disconcertingly like Leigh’s nephew admiring the graphics on a new video game.

“Shut up, Paulo.”

Leigh couldn’t help adding, “Yes, damn it, Paulo! Will you please shut up.”

“HAH! Hahaha!” Javier laughed – a real laugh, for a single unguarded moment. “I like you, Leigh, you tight-ass bitch! Tell you what, I’ll sweeten the pot. You make Bruno Magli there cum, with enough time left over to do me too before the train moves again, and I’ll let him live too.”

Puffing at the Cuban cigar, he slowly unwound Leigh’s long, wavy hair from his fist, releasing the stinging tug at her scalp. Reluctant to give up the spotlight, even to put his own amusing plan into action, Javier blew a perfect smoke ring. There was a long silence, and Leigh was aware that they were all impressed by the perfect roundness of Javier's smoke ring – not just thugs 1 through 3, but Leigh and her hapless Banker.

Her Banker? Yeah, for the next few minutes he’d better be.

Leigh turned her attention to the job at hand, facing Banker almost sheepishly; what facial expression is appropriate at a time like this?

The one that came naturally: a look of fierce resolve. A blow job to save both of their lives? If he can, I can.

Leigh combed her fingers through her hair, getting rid of the remaining pins that hung there, distracting her. She studied Banker’s shoes as if admiring the craftsmanship, and then looked her victim in the eye.

“Okay, Wall Street. Just lie back and think of Britain, and I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

Her fingers went to his zipper, but taking the guy’s cock out without his official okay seemed…wrong. “Will you do the honors?”

His face was unreadable, and there was an awkward pause while Leigh wondered if the man would refuse.

Hell. Her first sex in weeks, and her partner is being forced at gunpoint…If she got out of this alive, Leigh promised herself she’d never take the subway again.

 

[Rhovan]

Post 2 of 8, Series 1 of 3: 2

“You won’t get much of a performance out of me, under the circumstances.” George looked at Javier. He wasn't trying to be a hero, just all the violence and the gun was really putting a damper on his erotic spirits. Besides, he didn't know how she felt about the encounter, which was an obvious no-no for George. But that wasn't what Javier wanted to hear, as Javier wrapped his meaty fist in the woman's hair. George heard in the sudden silence that was only broken by a soft snore, the sounds of a half dozen pins hitting the floor from her hair. How cliche.

“That would be unfortunate, asshole.” The words were simple, crudely so. But the meaning was obvious and meanicing with the coldness that seemed only natural coming out of this punk's mouth. The fist in the woman's hair pulled up and backward until she was forced to look up, from her spot on her knees between George's legs. “What’s your name?” Javier knelt down beside the woman, his cigar clasped in his left hand, his right hand in her hair. He looked like he was having fun, as if he and his pals were out playing kick ball on the weekend.

“Leigh.” George heard her real voice this time. Not the voice of a bitch, or the authoritiative voice of a boss -- just Leigh's voice. It was a nice voice, one of those melodic ones that would sound great coming out of an alarm clock. A voice you wouldn't mind waking up to in the mornings. She was calm, all things considered, but George could see the fantic movement of her throat muscles and the purplish tinge that was slowly coming to the skin there from Javier's apprently punishing grip.

“Asshole, this is Leigh. Leigh, meet Asshole. If you can make him cum before the lights come back on, I’ll let you live.” George smiled a pained smile at Javier before extending his right hand as far as he could towards Leigh with it being actively held by miscellanious thug number three. "Pleased to meet you Leigh, I'm Asshole." That wasn't the best idea George ever had, as the thug holding his right hand brought it back under control by twisting George's index finger back much farther than a finger is ever supposed to go. George paled, but to his credit, didn't make a sound.

“That is so fuckin’ cool!”

“Shut up, Paulo.”

“Yes, damn it, Paulo! Will you please shut up.” George would have looked surprised, if he could look anything more than hurt. His finger was sticking straight from his hand, but further back than one usually enjoyed having one's finger. With clenched teeth George let out a shuddering sigh, and folded his finger in with the remaining four to clench his hand tight in an akward fist that did help a little with the pain.

“HAH! Hahaha!” It was hideous sounding, but it was real. It wasn't a laugh, it was a guffaw. The laugh of a young man who found something truely, and inspiringly funny. Unfortunately, the laugh didn't bring much humor to Javier with it. It just brought the cold edge of cynicism.“I like you, Leigh, you tight-ass bitch! Tell you what, I’ll sweeten the pot. You make Bruno Magli there cum, with enough time left over to do me too before the train moves again, and I’ll let him live too.”

George listened to all this, wondering what he should make of it. If she made him cum, she would live. If she made him cum and Javier as well, he got to live too. Should he ask that she just give up and take the sexual abuse for his own sake? Or does he try to be the bigger man, and allow her to just save herself? George didn't do either for the moment, he just did social commentary. "How would you know about Bruno Magli shoes? You don't even know how to smoke a cigar. And I'm Asshole, I'd appreciate it if you stopped calling me names." George got two nasty surprises at the same moment.

The first surprise was that Javier obviously knew something about smoking, if not cigars specifically. Javier turned to look at George, releasing a perfect smoke ring, beautiful in it's wonderful simplicity. He released Leigh's hair too, and George watched the smoke ring float straight at his face, expanding and floating as if to hit George right in the face, but disappaiting on the trip across the car. The second surprise was a surprisingly stiff strike to George's side just below his right arm from the thug on that side of his body. George jerked to the side, grunted, and tried to stop thinking of all the arrogant quips he wants to shout out at the thugs around him.

Leigh looked at him, and George looked back. She was a very attractive woman indeed. Up close, she was, startlingly attractive. She looked slightly embrassed, George could only look chagrinned. Then she hardered the look on her face, a look that said she was just here to get the job done. The cold detachment actually made it a little easier for George.

Then Leigh started toying with her hair, to dislodge hairpins seems to be why she did it, but it did something else entirely for George. It was like a movie moment, when the hand slides through the hair and it bounces and moves across her shoulders in slow motion, falling in perfect waves to either side of the face. Then she looked at George's shoes. Why, he couldn't tell, but he thought she might be impressed with them. An odd thought to have, but he did wear 600 dollar shoes so they would be noticed. He looked up when Leigh looked up, and for a moment it was just eye contact across the short distance between the two of them; surrounded by young toughs.

“Okay, Wall Street. Just lie back and think of Britain, and I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.” He looked at her, just a little confused, and saw her hands pause just over top of his zipper. She was obviously prepaired to suck his cock to save herself; but George had to wonder if she had intended to save him. “Will you do the honors?” George wasn't exactly in the best position to trust women; and placing one's cock into a woman's mouth was certainly a trusting situation. He wondered if he should just deny her the chance to save herself since she would most likely deny him. Or for that matter, Javier would probably order their death or severe beating no matter what they did. George thought all of this for longer than was required, and he could see the slight panic start to rise in Leigh's eyes.

So George did something that he would no doubt have fantasised about, he lowered his zipper while it was less than two feet from this woman's mouth. Holding his fly open with his left hand, he fished inside of his pants for a moment to extract his cock with his right hand. He let it rest on his thigh. It wasn't erect, but it was thickening and lengthing on the slow path to erection. The mood was different from what George was used too, and the gun didn't help. But the beauty of the woman in front of him, and his just general desire to have something good from this week was slowly battling with his fears and as they started to win, his cock started to harden.

"Usually I like to get a couple meals or movies, and certainly a couple drinks with a woman before progressing to this step. But I guess we do what we have to do." George shifted a bit in the hold of the thugs to either side of him, as Javier stood up and moved to the side of the pair on the floor. He leaned against a pole, and puffed happily on the Cohiba as he watched George's cock slowly rise from the front of his pants, and Leigh's hands hovering over it. Like she was the swami rising the cobra from the basket. George wasn't exactly used to receiving head while restrained by a group of men, but as it looked like he would have little to no say over it, he tried to relax. After all, her life depended on it.

"You sure you guys don't just want to beat the hell out of me and let the lady go?" George looked hopefully to Javier, Paulo did too. Apprently Paulo liked this idea. Javier smiled at George and shook his head. "Nope. But if ya want, we'll kick your ass after she is done. Yeah. That sounds like a good idea. Thanks for the tip Asshole." George shrugged as best he could with his arms held, then he leaned back against the chair. "Sorry Leigh." His cock was fully erect now, and throbbing lightly with the beat of his heart. This could be his last orgasm ever, so he figured he was going to enjoy it. George was just really glad he didn't fail to get an erection and thus doom them both.

 

[shereads]

"Subway" Leigh, Post #3

For a heart-stopping moment, as Banker reached into his pants to bring out his cock, Leigh wondered if he'd be able to achieve an erection. Under the circumstances, who could blame him if he --

Oh. Oh, my...

Even flaccid, it was an impressive specimen. There seemed to be some conversation between its owner and the thugs, but Leigh was a long-time fan of the male sexual organ, and she was too deep in concentration to listen to the mens' discussion.

I'm not afraid now; I'm excited...The fear is just an added dose of adrenilin, to help me service this cock with the enthusiasm it deserves.

Leigh licked her lips, and bent closer, pushing her blond hair back over her shoulders, out of her way. She reached a single, elegantly manicured finger toward Banker's slowly awakening cock, hesitated a moment -- enjoying the way it seemed to be responding to her closeness, without even having been touched -- and then she lightly trailed her fingertip up its length, from the taut skin where it emerged from Banker's pubic hair....slowly, slowly...slower still as it thickened and lengthened...and when at last, her finger reached the ridge at the base of Banker's cock head, she cupped her hand and lifted the glans to her face.

Worshipping it. Rubbing her soft cheek against it. Savoring the feel of velvety skin, fever-hot, stretched drum-tight across the now-angry organ.

"mmm...." Leigh heard a little animal moan of appreciation -- her own -- and silence. No one, not the owner of the beautiful penis, nor Javier, nor even Paulo and friends, had uttered a sound since Leigh's fingertip had made contact with Banker's flesh.

I am either the most shameless cock-whore in Manhattan, or I haven't had a cock in my hand in waaaaaay too long.

She wet her lips, parted them just slightly, and closed her eyes. The better to feel you with, my dear. Then, with her cupped palm, Leigh guided the purple plum-like glans to her mouth and gave it a reverent kiss.

She was aware of his sudden intake of breath - his, and his. And his, and his and --

"Shit, man! Does this bitch love cock, or what?!"

In unison, four male voices snarled, "Shut up, Paulo."

As Leigh bent to her work - her art, or so it seemed from her audiences' rapt attention - there was no sound in the darkened subway car except for heavy male breathing and an occasional snore from the drunk at the opposite end of the car.

 

[Rhovan]

Post 3 of 8, Series 1 of 3: 3

George wasn't sure what to think. Here he sat, in front of a subway seat, having been thrown here, and then restrained; quite possibly with broken fingers and certainly several hundred dollars short worth of material goods -- and he was about to get his cock sucked. But not just sucked, no, this wasn't some skanky whore who would probably give him the herpes: the gift that keeps on giving. No, this was Leigh. Granted, George didn't know Leigh from Adam, but she is certainly a very good looking woman, and she seemed to be at least mildly pleased with the shape, girth and size of George's cock. Which really, is all you can ask for when you pull it out in front of a woman.

George looked up for a moment, away from his cock and the woman on her knees in between his widely splayed legs. He looked at the thugs around him, and they all, to the man, were staring at the woman who was tentivtily reaching out to touch George's cock. George looked back to see her lick her lips, lean in closer and brush her hair from her face. So, in an effort to be as nice to the woman who indirectly held his life in her hands, George reached forward and eased Leigh's hair up and out of the way, holding it loosely to the side so it wouldn't swish back into her face, and more importantly, block his and the thugs view of this woman's mouth wrapped around a cock. And George hadn't even yet thought about the feelings that would have to accompany it.

She reached a finger out, and George noticed that she had a nice nail job; her finger flitted close, but didn't make contact. In reaction, George's cock got harder, straighter and looked more like it was straining to leap up into her mouth of it's own accord. Then her fingertip touched his hot flesh, lightly, starting at the base of his cock, and slowly dragging up the line on the underside until she touched the ridge just below the crown of his cock. Then she lifted George's cock in her hand, raising it as she leaned in closer, her face decending on his cock. George had the sudden terrifying thought that she might bite him, but he didn't think she would. After all, this wasn't his fault. Or was it? George was confused, but now he was entirely too horny to care.

Then Leigh did what George couldn't fathom. He had assumed she would just work him over as quickly as could manage it. But now she was rubbing the head of his cock against her cheek, slowly dragging the dry, sensitive skin through the fine, downy hair of her cheek. It was an alltogether different feeling for George. He had never had a girlfriend that actually enjoyed sucking cock, and yet here he seemed to have found someone who didn't seem to be able to get enough. "mmm...." She was making noises as if George's cock was what she had been searching for. George was stunned. It felt good, yes; and if this woman was as accomplished as George thought she me be, he probably wouldn't be able to remain silent indefinately. George never made a lot of noise during sex, but he thought now might be a good time to start.

Then Leigh licked her lips, leaving them wet and shiny. Her eyes shut, and her cupped hands, holding George's cock and lifting it up to her mouth. Again, George expected her to just engulf it, and work as hard as possible to get him off and be done with it. But she kissed the head of his cock, and George's hips shifted unconciously in response. George was suddenly aware of his own heavy breathing, he had never been in a situation anywhere near like this. And when you added in the forced nature and the thugs, it was really out of George's realm of expertise.

"Shit, man! Does this bitch love cock, or what?!"

"Shut up, Paulo!" George shouted it, as it was important for him to not have Paulo's whiny voice in his head while having his cock sucked by Leigh. But George was certainly surprised when the other two thugs and Javier said it at the same time, all but drowning out George's voice. Suddenly, the car was silent again, except for George's aoft pants, the heavy breathing of the other four guys, and the soft snoring of the old drunk, asleep and on the other side of the subway car. George's hips moved slightly in atticipation, and his hands moved gently to keep Leigh's hair out of her face as she apparently ignored all but his cock.

 

[shereads]

Subway, Leigh/Post #4

"shit..up. Paula," croacked a thin male voice from the back of the subway car, and for a moment the elderly drunk's intrusion into this strange scenario distracted Leigh from the erotic pleasure of Banker's thick cock-head surrendering to her mouth.

<<snort; zzzzzz>>

Good. He was unconscious again. Four thugs and one attractive Harvard Business School alumnus were more than enough men to deal with at the moment, particularly since MBA's masterful prick was stretching her mouth open, as his hips reflexively bucked upward...

His pulsing, hot/hard, broad-headed prick. His prick, trickling an offering of precum onto her tongue...

"Mmm-hmm," as if in agreement that the precum was an excellent idea, Leigh muttered her approval. Eager to enter the state of bliss that her former lover had called her "cock trance," the honey-blond in the pinstripe suit reached down to undo the buttons that closed her snug jacket...

Better to think of this as a sexual fantasy than to allow the reality of the situation to paralyze her with fear, shame and anger. That would doom them both.

Right up until the final hours of her relationship with Lars, Leigh had been able to take refuge from reality in the sheer joy of servicing an appreciative penis. She could do it now, too, provided there were no more unwelcome distractions. At least she and Banker would enjoy this part of the nightmare, no matter what their ultimate fate. With his erection now fully powered - weeping in response to her laving, slowly sweeping tongue - Leigh knew she could guarantee the poor guy an explosive orgasm in return for his courage on her behalf.

She lifted her head from Banker's penis just long enough to glance up at the looming alpha thug.

"Javier...Is it okay to call you Javier?"

"Huh?"

Rocky II had evidently been concentrating on her performance nearly as much as Leigh had, and he spoke like someone shaken awake from an intriguing dream.

"Will you take my jacket, please? It's...a little warm in here."

"Sure, babe."

She shrugged as he tugged, and the jacket took its place on the filthy linoleum - revealing a black short-sleeve top of stretch-knit cashmere, so fine and sheer that her breasts were outlined in all their quivering glory. They were neither large nor small, but the Platonic ideal of womanly breasts, rounding to a slight teardrop shape with the barest support of an unwired black silk bra...Following the direction of the men's stares, Leigh glanced down and blushed prettily at the sight of her achingly erect nipples, so hard and sharp that they seemed to be pointing at Banker. Reaching for him. Hello, lovely to meet you.

Leigh's eyes wandered from the evidence of her own shameful arousal - what kind of woman gets turned on at a time like this? - to the state of Banker's cock, which was both the key witness for the prosecution and all the evidence anyone would need to convict her partner-in-crime-victim of feelings as inappropriate as her own. Massaging him lightly before she took him in her mouth again, Leigh looked directly at Banker's unreadable face for only the second time since they had been...introduced.

In a husky whisper, Leigh asked, "What's your name?"

"What?" Another "why-did-you-wake-me" response, not unlike Javier's. It was oddly pleasing, all of this rapt male attention on what her mouth was about to do, and what her elegant little hands were doing now.

The beta-thug, one of the two who were holding Banker down in what now seemed a needless display of force, cleared his throat and explained, "She said, 'what's your name.'"

"Oh....ha. Had it on the tip of my tongue." He glanced meaningfully at her mouth, its full, pink lower lip lightly glossed with her saliva.

"Very funny," Leigh breathed, rewarding him with a light dance of her fingertip, full-circle, beneath the ridge of his cock-head. "I really would like to know. Before we...become more intimate."

"It's George," announced Paulo, holding up a New York State driver's license as evidence.

"Stop stalling, cunt." Javier was growing restless, as evidenced by the neglect of his cigar, as his free hand manipulated a newly prominent bulge at the front of his jeans. "Get that slut mouth to work."

But Leigh was a already a step ahead, and his words were barely out before she gave her long, lush, honey-colored mane a saucy toss over her shoulder, and touched her small, hot tongue-tip to the Main Event.

The big organ leaped and lurched in her gentle grip. Leigh probed the small slit for more precum and began a slow and leisurely masturbation of the stalk. Then her naughty little tongue began a slippery bathing ritual that currently concentrated on the enormous purple glans.

With her right hand, she stroked the skin in a way that massaged the meat and muscle beneath. With her left, Leigh ever-so-gently lifted George's heavy sac, up and back, so that he could feel his cock-skin tightened at the base.

"George," she murmured, glancing up at his glittering eyes. "I'm gonna make you feed me all that of this nice cum." Leigh gave the cream-laden balls an appreciative little bounce upon her soft palm, and began to suck and pump in earnest.

 

[Rhovan]

Post 4 of 8, Series 1 of 3: 4

George wasn't sure how the world worked. Of course, George wasn't sure he cared to know how the world worked. That kind of information would only cause problems. How does one man get dumped by a long term girlfriend, and then, within the week; forced to receive head from a woman who was both scathingly hot, and who gave every apperiance to both know what she was doing, and that she enjoyed doing it. Nothing better than a person who loves their job, right?

George couldn't remember the last time he was this aroused, but he was certain it didn't involve four other men, and a small calibre firearm. George couldn't help it, he groaned softly, licked his lips and watched Leigh watch his own cock leak precum across the head of his cock. Which didn't last long, as it slowly trickled its way from the very tip, down towards the ridge around the head -- it didn't last long because, because Leigh lowered her head with a slight murmur and licked the drop and trail said drop had left. George didn't know what to do, though he felt he wasn't showing enough, 'affection' for the situation. She didn't want to do this. At least, it hadn't been her idea. George was unable to say if she didn't want this or not really, as, she certainly seemed to be having a good time. But George didn't have use of his arms, so he couldn't do anything about it anyhow.

George watched silently, as Leigh moved to unbutton her jacket. He smiled slightly, here she was forced to suck a strangers cock, but she still takes time to be comfortable. George liked that. Then he watched her turn to face the bastard Javier, "Javier...Is it okay to call you Javier?"

"Huh?" Javier looked confused. He was focused on Leigh's mouth slowly moving near, and around George's cock so the sudden talking threw him off for a moment. Javier nodded, letting Leigh know that it was alright for her to call him Javier.

"Will you take my jacket, please? It's...a little warm in here."

"Sure, babe."

George was definately feeling odd. Guns. Thugs. Attractive office-worker type women. A drunk. This was a usual day on the subway, sure. But the last time George had heard of someone pulling their cock out on the train, a woman got raped -- and here was George, about to be...molested? Would they call it rape? George wouldn't. In fact, he was wondering if Leigh would go on a date with him after this; assumeing they lived through the evening. George watched Javier help Leigh out of her jacket, and then he tossed it to the floor.

"Hey now. She wanted you to hold her jacket, not throw it on the floor. You can at least expect a dry cleaning bill for th.." George stopped talking, miscellaious thug to his right had just socked him a good blow into his side, and the rest of George's tersely worded statement left him in a hiss and a grunt. George panted, looking through squiting eyes at the sudden revelation of Leigh's outfit. Black, tight, showing her bra beneath her shirt, but in that shimmery, look at it off-center-and-you-can-no-longer-see-it sort of way. It really was a spectacular sight. George couldn't do much but look straight ahead, but he did notice that all of the men were staring at Leigh, and she blushed. It was an attractive look really, the blush and the shying away from everyone's stares. Were Leigh's nipples hard? Could it be? Nah.

"What's your name?"

"What?" George was caught off guard. She spoke. She wasn't prompted to speak. What the hell was it she said? Think George, think.

"She said, 'what's your name.'" That was the thug on George's left. Humm...what is my name?

"Oh....ha. Had it on the tip of my tongue. Oh yeah. It's asshole." George tore his gaze from Leigh, to look at Javier. Ever the defiant gentleman in the face of opposition, eh?

"Very funny." Was Leigh being sarcastic? Or did she mean that? The tone said sarcasm, but the touching and the rubbing said it wasn't sarcasm. "I really would like to know. Before we...become more intimate."

"It's George." George looked at Paulo, who was on his right. "Thanks Paulo," George said through a smile that promised murder if their situations were reversed. George could almost respect the rest of them, but this guy was just...nebbish. Of course, George could only quasi-psuedo-respect the ones that hadn't yet done anything negative to Leigh. Which would be the two guys holding onto George's arms. Especially once Javier opened his mouth again. "Stop stalling, cunt." There he was, lecheriously rubbing his cock through his jeans. What a nasty bastard, probably a man with frotteurism. This being thought by the man with his cock out, in the open. But that wasn't his fault. "Get that slut mouth to work," Javier continued. George was positive that he didn't like Javier any longer.

But again George was distracted by Leigh. He kinda liked that. She seemed to be more than able to calm him down when he was just getting his fur up. Here he was, ready to earn himself yet more pain by saying nasty things to Javier, but Leigh totally deflated his argument with a toss of her hair and a lick of her tongue. Again, the car fell totally silent (except for the drunk's snores) and all eyes were focused on George's cock, and Leigh's very close face and mouth. George felt a little odd as the center of attention, but that was a very tiny portion of his mind compaired to the screaming nerve endings telling him to just sit back and enjoy what would probably be the best blow job of his life.

She really knew what she was doing. Tongueing the tip, slowly moving her hand up and down it's length; licking around the head, holding onto George's hot balls as they worked over-time-through-the-weekends-and-holidays to produce what would probably be the most cum they had ever produced without a union rep present. "George, I'm gonna make you feed me all that of this nice cum." She said it while she looked up. Her mouth hovering near to his cock, her hands moving on it, and here she was looking up through her eye lashes to tell him dirty things. He couldn't ever get a woman to do that for him. He definately had to ask her out. Instead, he said, "Alright." He smiled softly. He didn't know what else to do. He didn't want to be here, but in the same vein, he didn't want to be anywhere else either. Oh the inner conflict of a man about to be given head at gun point.

Then she sucked his cock into her mouth and his world disappeared as he leaned back into a world of pleasant feelings and soft focus. Oddly enough, it had track lighting too.

 

[shereads]

"Subway"/Leigh/Post #5

The red light blinks off for a moment and the world goes black, but Leigh is off in another world. George's fevered meat fills her hands and mouth, and in her mind there is no longer room for thought.

Only pleasure.

The forced nature of the act does nothing to diminish the arousal Leigh experiences from this, the purest expression of her insatiable lust. Fellatio is the act that excites and satisfies her dual nature - sexually submissive but rigidly protective of her independence. The center of male power is entrusted to her hands. Not willingly in this instance, but no one can deny the will of a man's penis when it reaches this state: outrage. Yes, George's penis feels and tastes outraged by the pain and frustration of erection.

It has to hurt, she thinks as she licks and laps across and around the super-heated flesh. It has to hurt, the velvety-soft skin stretched cruelly over this throbbing mass of rushing blood and rampant flesh.

"Oh, baby," she whispers to the object of desire, pulling her mouth from the apple-like tip with the lewd, liquid sound of broken suction. Her eyes are closed in bliss, her breathing shallow, her thighs pressed together, so much need between her legs that the juice drenches her panties and begins to seep outward and downward, rivulets of it tickling the warm skin.

"Baby, I'll take care of it, I promise." She presses her cheek to the firey surface of the glans once more, caressing and comforting and savoring the shocked response as the shaft jerks within the grasp of her hands.

Then she plunges downward, ignoring the reflexive need to gag, and takes her Hero deep into her throat, so deep that George's cock-shaft is clearly outlined beneath the pale translucence of her slender throat.

"Damn," whispers someone.

"Shut up, Paulo," rasps another hoarse male voice.

"That was me," answers Javier, his own voice coming from another place, as if he's been transported into Leigh and George's shared erotic dream and can barely summon the strength to be the alpha thug.

The loudest sounds in the subway car are the wet slap-pull-slap of Leigh's small, strong hand masturbating the saliva-soaked penis, and the shameless slurping of her greedy, deeply suctioning mouth.

 

[Rhovan]

Post 5 of 8, Series 1 of 3: 5

George wasn't sure what to think. In fact, he doubted rational thought was possible, or even a wise choice at the moment. If he thought to hard, or for that matter, sneezed; this might all disappear. Sure, George could have done without the near breaking of his fingers, the repeative blows to body, head, face and the like--but George couldn't honestly wish this hadn't happened. It might be foolish of him to think that she might want to go on a date with him after this event, or that she might even want to speak to him. Of course, as far as George knew, he was destined to be shot. And in short order.

Either the lights had shut off, or George's eyes had rolled into the back of his head. He wasn't sure. Hell, he couldn't honestly say his eyes were open. It didn't seem that important to him of a sudden. He felt more than heard the men on either side of him adjusting their positon, undoubtably to ease the pressure in their slacks that Leigh's performance was causing. The sounds alone of the slight, wet, smacking noise of Leigh's mouth working up and down on his cock was enough to give George an erection that threatened to burst physical limits. But not only did he hear it, and see it--he experianced it.

"Oh, baby. Baby, I'll take care of it, I promise." George felt she was toying with him. She spoke softly, almost like one would to draw an injured animal out of hiding so you could help it. But she wasn't being patronizing, just... honest. A woman without all the veils that they throw up, a woman who by all appearances was doing something she really wanted to be doing. Just at gun point. She rubbed her face against his cock, holding it loosly with one hand as she dragged the pre-cum weeping tip of his cock on her face, through the very fine downy hair there. Her spit soaking the head and shaft of George's cock gave it almost a metallic sheen in the poor light of the subway tunnel.

Then he was in her throat. Or, more aptly, his cock was in her throat. There wasn't any transfer period. One moment his cock rested at the corner of her mouth, gently being lapped by the tip of her tongue, the next minute his cock was firmly in her throat in a realm of peristaltic bliss. George can't see anything but Leigh's hair, some bound up still, some free of it's confines. He can feel her lips moving slightly in amidst his pubic hairs, and her throat working around his cock. He'd never felt this before. No woman had ever really wanted to spend much time down there for him, let alone let him fuck her throat. It was new, yet surprisingly comforting at the same time. George did manage a measure of solace in the fact that Leigh obviously didn't mind this too terribly much.

"Damn." Someone was talking. Was it George? He wasn't sure, but he thought his tongue was lolling out the side of his mouth in abject pleasure. He knew it wasn't Leigh, not so much by the voice, as it was muddled under the pounding of his blood in his ear; but because he could still feel the very back of her tongue working against the underside of his cock head. With a delightful effect.


"Shut up, Paulo." That might have been him. George suddenly recalled a sincere dislike for the one named Paulo. He was everything that a good lackey should be, and that put him at odds with George. He was one of those weak willed guys who was always busy trying to curry favor with those around him that are stronger, that is to say everyone else. Before George could really figure out who said what, he leaned his head back into the seat and groaned. He wasn't sure how Leigh could manage it, but both her throat and her tongue were working on his shaft at the same time, in intervals; in a constant dance that threatened to send his seed bursting down her throat at any moment.


"That was me." That wasn't George. He knew that. And for several long moments, that was all George knew. His hips moved of their own accord, lifting him a bit towards Leigh's fast moving hand and deliciously sucking mouth. His head was tossed back into the seat, eyes tightly shut and mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it again. Then with a sudden start his lips parts only to hiss on a sudden gust of breath, "Leigh!.."


That was all the warning George could muster. His hips pushed forward further than he had moved them previously, his balls pulled up as tight to his shaft as they could despite Leigh's hand. Toes curling inside of his shoes, thighs quivering with the force of muscles tightened but with nothing to push against. The thugs to either side of him grunted with surprise when George's arms jerked free of their grip, which had fallen lack in their intent studying of Leigh in the poor light. George's hands moved quickly, firmly, inexoribly, but gently onto Leigh's head, moving her down, keeping her from retreating from the force of his climax. Then his seed started to flow. Hot, thick, powerful bursts of cum; with nowhere to go but Leigh's mouth.