Mae, Hot Tarmac

Reads: 56  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Featured Review on this writing by AdamCarlton

Surfers. Late night Surfers. Surfing the net, the web, the line. Caught up in a spider’s web.

Nick - a late night surfer / prey - by Dmitry Vercherko, Unsplash

Sneaky Peak: yes, there's more to come (chomp, chomp!) - HJx

 

Surfers. Late night Surfers. Surfing the net, the web, the line. Caught up in a spider’s web of deceit. Desire. Lust. Prey for the predator. Breaking taboos. Crossing the blurred lines of acceptability. Crossing lines.

Nick got off after Mae, crossing the yellow safety line, his safety line. The doors slid shut. The train moved off. They stood in silence on the empty platform. Him behind her. Safe distance: social distance: metre. Mae smiled for the camera, candid camera, then mooned. Keeping her slender thighs and calves straight, knees in, legs closed, she bent, at the hips, reaching forward until she touched the tarmac. The tarmac felt hot to touch, tacky on her fingertips. She exhaled through her nose, holding her tongue in place behind her clamped teeth, stretching her pink, rubbery lips, smiling expectantly,

Soiled pants on my fire. Bloody rare rump, his rump, on my plate. Warm sauce Bearnaise.

He shiver-breathed at the sight of her, skirt hitched high, mooning for him. Her taut, pale buttocks shone under the station lights. Drool fodder for the boys in the Incident Room. Up the junction. Christ! He could make out blue veins running up the backs of her knees, the tendons, straining in her calves and thighs. The sheer effort of her impressed him,

The abs she must have. The strength in those abs.

Mae messaged him. Advertising her body subliminally. Indecently exposing herself. His mind made itself up,

She fancies me, her place, not mine.

Then she was straightening at the hip, softening at the knee, standing upright. Mae stepped into the gates of delirium, extracting the railcard from a slit in her miniskirt, wiping it on the reader. She swished her skirt, Monroe. Her prey tried to look away. Couldn’t. A hard lump formed in his throat:

I’ve an attractive wife: brunette, fleshy, succulent, chewy, doughy Sal, kids: Justin Mindy.

Nick stamped his feet in frustration. He’d left his jacket on the train: comb, wallet, keys, hope, love, loyalty.

Now what’ll I do?

Secrets, dirty secrets. One-way-tickets to lust. Portals, openings, apertures. Gates, to Mae.

She turned to face him, across her divide, their causeway. His bleary eyes fell to her chest. The shiny beige satin blouse she barely wore was open. Mae let a breast hang out for him.

Coming out to play with me tonight?

Angry with himself, yet captive, her prey swiped his debit card, passing through her gates, and – with that – obliterating all hope of going home.


Submitted: June 11, 2021

© Copyright 2021 HJ FURL. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:

Comments

AdamCarlton

A fine example of associative writing, the mind enfolded, engulfed by earthy, carnal adjectives.

Fri, June 11th, 2021 12:51pm

Author
Reply

Thank you so much Adam,
I take from that dramatic flourish, you thought it was okay?
Have a lovely weekend.
HJ

Fri, June 11th, 2021 1:05pm

tom mcmullen

Oh dear HJ, a good description of lust if only I had a few hormones left!

Sat, June 12th, 2021 6:01am

Author
Reply

A few'll do, it's better to wear out than rust out, so they say!

Sat, June 12th, 2021 11:13am

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