Joyriding
Amalia likes the Tube. Except at rush hour, no-one likes being on the Underground at rush hour. Not being employed, she has the leisure to ride beneath and between the streets of London all day if she chooses but it never comes to that. Sooner or later her attention is distracted – a throaty laugh, a lustful glance, a bulging crotch; it doesn’t take much – and she has found her next vehicle, her next adventure. She could cruise the bars and clubs, but she dislikes loud noise and the effects of intoxication. Workplaces are too regimented and impersonal, there are few opportunities to be found there. She likes to be inside, where she can concentrate without the sense of dissipation and dilution that fresh air – or whatever the London equivalent of such a thing may be – produces.
Giggles. Gasps. A half-stifled moan. They call to her, drawing her close in fascination. There are two of them, two handsome young men huddled together in the corner of the carriage. One is whispering into the other’s ear, words of lust and longing it would appear. The listener’s eyes are wide, the fork of his jeans already beginning to swell. No rings; not married. Amalia has little time for the married, finding their lives mundane and drab; the occasional gleaming nugget of arousal hard to distinguish from the grey pebbled beachhead of familiarity, habit, regime. There may be spouses whose bright sexuality has not yet been smothered by banal domesticity but Amalia has no incentive look for them. Why bother, when there are so many other new acqaintances to be made?
She likes causal hookups. To welcome a newcomer to one’s body is excitement, anticipation, exploration.
All the more so when one’s body has been borrowed. Hijacked, would be the uncharitable way to describe it. She never says “possessed”, never even thinks it. The horror-movie hyperbole of the word and its associations offends her, as does the implied assertion of ownership and entitlement. She borrows, for a short while only, and always with gratitude.
Which of these young men will she borrow tonight? The tall one sporting handsomely flared cheekbones and liquid dark eyes beneath epicanthic folds? Or the pleasantly plump one with bleached-blond hair showing auburn roots and the light scattering of freckles across his nose? Exotic or boyish? She has no particular preference for body type, is not rigid in her appreciation of beauty. Life is what she wants, energy, intensity.
She opts for the dark one, his confident demeanour underlain by crackling force of sexuality, almost-visible sparks arcing from him to his paramour. Fleeting through to familiarise herself with his proportions and perspective – a test drive, one might say – she is well-satisfied with her choice. It is doubtful that he has even noticed; between one blink and the next she is gone and he is himself again. A moment of absent-mindedness easily attributed to inattention.
She follows them home.
Later that night, as he rides the blond, she rides him, slipping in under his consciousness with practiced ease, just as he had slid himself inside his lover moment before.
Her heart pumps, her breath comes heavily with arousal and exertion. Her hard cock enveloped by heat and pressure within him, the soft cushion of his buttocks against her thighs. She is delirious with sensation, running her long-fingered elegant hands over his naked, freckled back, reaching further to brush the wiry auburn curls on his chest, the soft down over his stomach, the (oh! he shaves!) smooth skin at the base of his thick shaft. Hands full of him, him full of her, they move together in urgency and ecstasy. Bodies slippery with musky man-sweat, deep-voiced grunts and sighs. She braces herself against him, thrusts harder, deeper, burying her borrowed flesh in his close embrace until the gathering tautness in her balls and yearning ache in her cock combine in delicious, dazzling release. She staggers, pumps, groans, fills him with life and love, relishing the seconds-long chorus of nerves and muscle and glands singing their valediction to pleasure.
She leaves before it is over. She is not a monster, after all. It was never her intention to deny the experience to whom it rightfully belongs, only to share, now and again, in its passion. The young man perhaps wonders later whether he drank too much or paid too little attention that night; for he does not recall the details of their congress, only that the time between hello-there kiss and fuck-yes orgasm seems to have passed unnoticed.
Amalia does not return; novelty is what she seeks. Novelty and excitement, lust and passion. Pleasure and presence. She’s had better sex in the three years since her untimely passing than she ever had while alive.
