The flickering streetlight above scattered shadows like
discarded eyelashes across the cracked pavement. My reflection in the grimy bus
shelter window warped unnaturally — a cascade of synthetic burgundy curls
framing features softened by foundation, the stiff lace collar of my
thrift-store blouse scraping against my Adam’s apple. Midnight oil wasn’t what
I expected to smell like — cheap perfume, stale cigarette smoke clinging to my
faux-fur jacket, and the faint metallic tang of the approaching rain. Waiting
felt like suspended animation.
He leaned against the shelter’s opposite end, a crumpled
brown grocery bag at his feet, staring intently at his phone’s glow. Wedding
band catching the sickly yellow light. Mid-forties, maybe? Lines etched deep
around weary eyes, a rumpled trench coat swallowing his sturdy frame. Our gaze
met briefly when the distant wail of a siren startled us both. His lingered a
heartbeat too long, a flicker cutting through the careful indifference most men
wear like armor when they clock me. Not disgust. Not pity. Interest, raw and
unexpected, like finding a wild orchid pushing through concrete.
Rain began pattering against the plexiglass roof—a sudden,
insistent rhythm. He cleared his throat softly. “Bus is late.” His voice was
rougher than I imagined, grating over gravel. I nodded, adjusting my collar.
The silence stretched, thick with rainwater and possibility. He shifted his
weight, eyes tracing the desperate graffiti scrawled on the shelter wall—a
jagged heart pierced by an arrow. “You heading far?” he asked, gaze sliding
back to me, lingering on the curve of my neckline.
A gust shuddered through the shelter, flapping his trench
coat open. The sodden grocery bag slumped sideways, spilling bruised apples
onto the wet concrete. Instinct pulled me toward them, heels clicking sharply.
“Let me help—” Our fingers brushed reaching for the same fallen fruit. His
knuckles were thick, calloused. Mine, painted crimson. We both froze. The air
crackled, charged like the flickering streetlight overhead. He didn’t pull
away. Neither did I.
“Jessi,” I breathed, the name catching slightly on the lace
at my throat. His eyes snapped to mine, a flicker of surprise, maybe
recognition, deepening the lines around them. A small, nearly imperceptible
nod. “Mark,” he muttered. The rain’s rhythm changed, hammering harder. Thunder
grumbled in the distance, echoing the low vibration trapped beneath my ribs.
The bruised apple lay cold and slick between our hovering
hands. Instead of pulling back, his calloused thumb grazed the edge of my
painted fingernail – a deliberate, feather-light touch that sent a jolt
straight to my gut. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice rough velvet now, pitched
low beneath the downpour. “Slippery.” His gaze stayed locked on mine, the
casual warning carrying a current that had nothing to do with wet pavement or
fallen fruit. The flickering streetlight reflected in his pupils like tiny, fractured
stars.
He scooped the apple up himself, his other hand closing
gently over my wrist instead, guiding me back upright. The heat of his fingers
seeped through the sleeve of my faux-fur jacket. “Thanks,” he said, holding my
wrist a beat too long. His thumb pressed lightly against the delicate bones
beneath my skin. The grocery bag crackled wetly as he shoved the apple inside.
Every nerve ending screamed where he touched me. Across the street, the neon
sign of a boarded-up pawnshop blinked *P-A-W*, sharp red pulses staining the
rain-slicked asphalt.
Thunder rolled closer, a deep groan that seemed to vibrate
the shelter’s metal frame. Mark glanced towards the deserted street corner
where the bus would appear – still no headlights cutting the gloom. “Need
a place drier than this?” The question felt heavy, deliberate. His eyes
dropped to my crimson lips, then flicked back up. The invitation wasn’t subtle.
It hung thick in the humid air between us, mingling with the scent of wet wool
and my cheap perfume. My pulse hammered against his lingering grasp.
He released my wrist, letting his hand trail slowly down my
forearm before retreating entirely. The sudden absence of his touch felt colder
than the rain. He gestured vaguely towards the darkened alley beside the
boarded-up pawnshop, its entrance swallowed by deeper shadows. “There’s…
shelter back there.” His gaze held mine, daring me to refuse or pretend I
misunderstood. The neon *P-A-W* blinked erratically, casting fleeting crimson
streaks across his weary, hopeful face.
My heels crunched wet gravel as I followed him into the
narrow passageway, walls pressing close, smelling of damp brick, overflowing
dumpsters, and something sweetly rotting beneath the rain. He stopped beneath a
rusted fire escape dripping silver rivulets onto the cracked concrete. Here,
the city sounds muffled – just the drumming rain, our ragged breaths, and the
frantic thud of my own heart. He turned, crowding me against the damp wall
without touching me yet, his trench coat flaring like dark wings. His eyes,
shadowed now, searched my face, lingering on my painted lips again.
“Never done this,” he confessed, the roughness in
his voice suddenly edged with vulnerability. The admission hung raw, surprising
us both. His hand lifted slowly, palm hovering near my cheekbone like he was
gauging the heat radiating from my skin. Rainwater traced the deep lines beside
his eyes, catching the faint, fractured neon glow that penetrated the alley
mouth. The grocery sack rustled faintly at his feet, forgotten. “You’re…
something else, Jessi.” It wasn’t just desire; it was wonder, laced with fear.
My own hand moved almost unconsciously. Brushing against the
coarse wool of his trench coat belt, trailing lower. Fingers encountered worn
gabardine trousers over solid thigh muscle—then the undeniable ridge straining
against the fabric midway down. The heat radiating through the damp material
felt volcanic. I didn’t grasp, didn’t linger theatrically; just the brief,
intimate glide of my knuckles over that rigid shape. A confirmation. His breath
hitched audibly, sharp and shallow. A tremble ran through him, mirrored
instantly by the shudder in my own legs.
Neon *P-A-W* flashed crimson across his face, highlighting
the stark hunger mixed with panic tightening his jaw. The admission of
inexperience hadn’t been a ploy. He truly was adrift here, a married man
tethered only by the undeniable magnetism pulsing between us in this dripping
alley. My whisper barely carried over the drumming rain, “Someone’s
eager.” Not coy, just observation. Fact. His eyes squeezed shut for a
fractured second, a silent acknowledgment of the precipice he’d willingly stepped
onto.
His hand finally settled against my cheekbone. Not tentative
now, but desperate, anchoring. His calloused thumb traced the edge of my
painted lips, smudging the cheap crimson slightly. His breathing was ragged,
shallow gasps that fogged the chilled air near my neck. Up close, beneath the
wet wool scent of his coat, I caught the faint traces of laundry detergent and
something like cedarwood aftershave—ordinary smells made extraordinary by the
illicit intimacy. His hips rolled forward instinctively, grinding the rigid
outline beneath his gabardine trousers harder against my knuckles still resting
lightly there. A low groan escaped him, swallowed almost instantly by the
downpour.
The rough brick scraped my shoulder blades through the thin
blouse as I slid down the damp wall, dropping smoothly to my knees on the
gritty, wet concrete. Rainwater soaked instantly through the knees of my
fishnet stockings, icy shock contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from
him. My fingers moved with practiced, deliberate slowness, finding the worn
leather belt buckle. His trembling hand fumbled over mine, urgency warring with
hesitation. Together, we tugged his belt loose. The rasp of the metal clasp
opening echoed strangely loud. My gaze stayed locked on his, watching the
frantic pulse jump in his throat as I pushed the coarse trench coat fabric
aside. The button fly of his trousers strained under my touch. I popped each
button deliberately, watching the panic deepen in his eyes, the raw need
tightening his jaw.
His cock sprang free, thick and startlingly hot against the
sudden chill of the alley air. Veined velvet steel against my rain-chilled
fingertips. My breath hitched—not feigned surprise, but the visceral shock of
*him*. The primal scent of musk and sweat cut through the alley’s decay,
intimate and overwhelming. I paused, letting him feel the slickness of my
painted lips grazing the swollen head, tasting rainwater and salt skin. His
hips jerked involuntarily, a choked gasp tearing from him. Above me, his shadow
swallowed the fractured neon light, trembling like the rusted fire escape
dripping silver onto his hunched shoulders.
“I think you need to cum,” I murmured, the words a
low thrum against his sensitive flesh. Not teasing, not an extractable vow—just
inevitable truth hanging thick in the humid darkness between breaths. My eyes
locked onto his. His pupils were blown wide, drowning the brown in black,
reflecting the frantic pulse of the pawnshop sign. Panic warred violently with
pure, drowning need as he stared down at me, tangled burgundy curls framing a
scene he’d likely fought since our fingers brushed over bruised apples.
My lips slid down his shaft with practiced purpose, tongue
swirling against the straining vein underneath—not tender, not tentative, but
claiming. The sharp intake of cold alley air ruptured his control. He bucked
sharply, head smacking against wet brickwork behind him with a dull thud. A
guttural groan tore loose, ripped from somewhere deeper than hesitation or
marriage vows. His calloused hand fisted painfully in my synthetic curls,
dragging me impossibly closer onto him, forcing him deeper into wet heat as his
hips pistoned forward helplessly.
The first thick pulse flooded my mouth—hotter than the
feverish alley air, tasting bitter-salty, thick with the tang of unanticipated
surrender. It flooded the back of my throat, undeniable. My throat muscles
worked instinctively, swallowing convulsively against the force as he kept
pumping, kept pulsing, a frantic, shallow rhythm against my sealed lips. Above
me, his breathing fractured into choked sobs mingling with the drumming rain.
His legs trembled violently; I braced a hand flat against his soaked gabardine
thigh to keep him upright, feeling the hard muscle quiver beneath my palm. His
other hand pressed my skull tighter against him, fingers digging into my scalp
like anchors in a storm.
The taste lingered, metallic and vital, as his tremors
slowly subsided into isolated shivers. The gruff sound of him catching his
breath, ragged and wet, echoed louder than the downpour. He slumped backwards
against the slick brick wall, his grip slackening. The neon glare sliced across
his face—revealing tear tracks mingling with rainwater, tracing clean paths
through the grime and exhaustion etched into his features. His eyes stared past
me, unfocused, haunted.
Water soaked the knees of my fishnets, sharpening the sting
where gravel pressed through. I didn’t pull away immediately. My cheek rested
against the cooling dampness of his gabardine thigh, listening to the frantic
thrum beneath his skin gradually slow. The brick scraped my shoulder blades as
I shifted. My reflection shimmered faintly in a puddle beside his worn
loafers—burgundy curls plastered to my temples, lipstick smeared beyond repair.
The lace collar felt like wet sandpaper against my throat. Silence stretched,
heavy and thick. Only the drumming rain and the distant cough of a refuse truck
broke it. His wedding band gleamed dully in the fractured light, a cold, hard
promise inches from my cheek.
He sank down beside me against the damp wall, his trench
coat collapsing in sodden folds. His shuddering breath released a plume of
vapor into the humid air. “Christ,” he rasped, the word frayed at the
edges. His fingers trembled near mine on the gritty concrete, close enough to
touch but not bridging the gap. A single, bruised apple had rolled from his
forgotten grocery bag to rest against my heel. He stared at it blankly, then at
the blinking crimson *P-A-W* bleeding into the alley mouth. The smell of wet
brick, decay, cheap perfume, and spent sex clung fiercely to the confined
space. The bus shelter across the street remained empty, skeletal under the
flickering streetlight.
The distant growl of a diesel engine sliced through the
drumming rain. Twin headlights pierced the gloom, painting stripes across wet
asphalt before halting at the desolate shelter. The hiss of air brakes echoed
sharply. Relief warred sharply with something hollow beneath my ribs. I pushed
myself up slowly, my soaked fishnets cold and gritty against my knees.
“Bus,” I stated flatly, adjusting the stiff lace collar scraping my
throat. He looked up at me, his expression clouded with spent exhaustion and a
bewildered residue of panic. The neon sign traced the wet tracks on his face –
rainwater, tears, indistinguishable now.
He scrambled upright, movements awkward, hurriedly stuffing
the neglected grocery bag deeper into his trench coat pocket. His gaze kept
darting between my smeared face and the waiting bus, its doors sighing open
like a reluctant invitation. He smoothed his rumpled gabardine trousers, a
futile gesture. Silence stretched, thicker than the humid air and the clinging
scent of our encounter. Only the frantic blink of the *P-A-W* sign filled it,
pulsing crimson onto the puddle where the bruised apple rested against my heel.
He cleared his throat, the sound harsh. “Right. Yeah.”
I turned towards the alley mouth without another word, heels
crunching gravel. The rain plastered my burgundy curls flat against my temples.
Walking towards the bus felt like wading through wet cement. My reflection in
the dark shelter window flickered grotesquely as I approached – blurred
burgundy hair, ravaged lipstick, foundation smudged near my jawline. The
anonymous driver stared vacantly ahead. I climbed the steps, my soaked faux-fur
jacket heavy and cold.
Behind me, his footsteps hesitated on the pavement before
following. The scent of wet wool, cedarwood aftershave, and something else –
something primal and fading – filled the cramped entrance as he paid his fare.
He didn’t meet my eyes. We moved down the aisle, past empty rows of slick
plastic seats. He slid heavily into a window seat halfway down. I kept walking,
sinking into a seat several rows back, near the rear exit. The doors hissed
shut with finality. The engine roared, vibrating the chassis. Through the
streaked, grimy window, I watched the dripping alleyway, the rusted fire
escape, and the blinking *P-A-W* sign shrink abruptly as the bus lurched
forward. Downpour blurred the glass, turning the neon smear into a ghostly
wound against the dark bricks.
His reflection hovered in my window, doubled and distorted
by layers of condensation and grime. He was rigid against the glass, forehead
pressed to it. Not watching the alley retreat, but staring fixedly at nothing,
or perhaps at his own pale, rain-streaked face reflected back. The lumpy
grocery bag sat forgotten in his lap. One hand fidgeted near his temple,
fingertips grazing the faint impression his wedding band must have left. The
bus swung wide around a corner, centrifugal force pressing me against the cold
vinyl seat. His reflection slid across the wet pane, momentarily eclipsing the
alley as it vanished completely. When the bus straightened, his image stayed
glued to the glass, forehead still pressed hard, knuckles white where he
gripped the seat-edge.
My own breath fogged a small circle on the window near my
chin. Through it, the city pulsed erratically: flickering signs advertising
pawn shops and bail bonds, boarded-up storefronts, pools of distorted yellow
light beneath street lamps. Rain painted chaotic trails down the plexiglass,
refracting brake lights into crimson smears. I focused on the rhythm of the
wipers dragging across the windshield ahead: *thump-screech, thump-screech*.
The taste still lingered faintly beneath the stale bus air – salt-bitter-metal,
curiously impersonal now. The lace collar rasped against my damp throat again.
Outside, a lone figure hunched beneath an awning, face obscured, watching the
empty street. The image dissolved instantly into the next block’s deeper gloom.
The bus accelerated onto a wider, bleaker avenue.
Streetlights became fewer, farther apart. He hadn’t moved. His reflection
remained a dark, hunched silhouette fused to the pane, utterly still. The only
light inside was the sickly glow of the bus’s ceiling strips, washing
everything in a watery greenish-yellow. A faint tremor went through him – a
shudder he couldn’t suppress. Outside, the darkened expanse of an empty parking
lot flashed by, pockmarked with oily puddles reflecting a lone, distant sodium vapor
lamp. Beyond it, a chain-link fence rushed past, topped with barbed wire. He
lifted his head finally, a slow, heavy detachment. He didn’t look back. He
stared straight ahead, down the empty aisle, into the tunnel of dim light and
whirring engine noise. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping faintly beneath the
skin. The city retreated into a smear of indistinct shadows and rain behind us.
My own thigh muscles ached from kneeling. The synthetic fur
collar of my jacket was soaked through, chilling my neck. I smelled it still –
the cedarwood detergent, the rain-slicked wool, the sour tang of the alley
dumpster, and underneath it all, fading with every mile, the intimate musk of
his release clinging faintly to my palate. Below me, rainwater pooled darkly on
the worn vinyl seat cushion. A lone piece of gravel had worked its way into my
shoe, digging sharply into my heel bone with every shift of my weight. Outside,
the rhythmic *thump-screech* of the windshield wipers was the only constant
counterpoint to the diesel drone. We passed beneath a crumbling pedestrian
bridge choked with ivy. A spray-painted tag glowed momentarily crimson in the
headlights: a crude crown dripping blood-red tears. Then darkness swallowed it
again. The bus groaned as it shifted gears climbing a long, shallow incline.
-
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