Skin Deep 3

"It's okay," she said, looking him right in the eye, "you can touch them if you want. I mean, you're so freaking obvious, y'know? You've been staring at my tits for the last ten minutes. So go ahead, touch them. I won't mind."

Brian shook his head. Had she really said that? Or were his ears playing tricks on him? Perhaps he'd misunderstood her words, muffled by the constant hum of the train's engine, the rickety thump, thump of the wheels speeding along the tracks.

She shook her head. "I knew it."

She knew what? What was her problem?

"Guys like you are all alike," she said. She wasn't looking at him now, though. She had the window seat, and was taking full advantage of it before night came and inked out the view. They were passing through the farm belt of western Illinois, not far from the Mississippi River. Fields of corn swayed languorously in the hot August breeze. "You're all just a bunch of cowards. Fakes."

Fakes? Who was she calling a fake?

"You," she said, and now she did swivel her head around to look at him again. There was something penetrating about her eyes, as if they somehow could see through him, into him, his inner secrets and weaknesses and regrets and failings all revealed. He felt naked in the face of her stare.

"You don't know the first thing about me," he shot back. His voice had a whiny tinge to it. It always did when someone got him riled. He hated that.

"Don't I?" she said. "I know you want to touch my tits, but are too chicken to try it, how's that for starters?"

Swell. Just swell, for starters.

"Pathetic, if you ask me," she said. So, who asked her? "You know, I bet you feel afraid when you're around people, am I right? Especially women. Especially hot women, women you want to fuck. Am I right? Or am I right?"

He moved further away from her in his seat, edging his ass toward the aisle. He gained another two, maybe three inches of separation. Not nearly enough.

The train lurched, and he nearly fell over, into the aisle. Fuck. A fat, bald man shuffled past, toward the small restroom at the front of the car.

"So I ask you again, do you want to touch my tits? Lick them? Pinch my nipples, make them good and stiff and erect for you? Hmm? Tell me what you want."

Before he could answer, she surprised him. She grabbed his right hand, which had been resting primly on his lap, and brought it to her left breast. He tried to pull away, but she had a firm grip on him.

"Feel me up . . ." Here, she paused. "What's your name, anyway?"

His name? This woman, this total stranger, whom he'd just nodded hello to for the first time in his life twenty minutes ago when he boarded the train, had kidnapped his hand and was making him fondle her tit. And she was asking him his name? Acting like this was normal? Like this was what total strangers did upon meeting?

And yet, all he said was, "Brian."

She smiled. He tried to free himself from her grasp, but couldn't, or wouldn't—he wasn't sure which. The fat man who had gone to the restroom came back down the aisle, heading for his seat, and threw Brian and the woman a "what the hell do you think you're doing" look. But he said nothing.

She reached over to shake his free hand with her free hand. "Hey, Brian. I'm Susan. And it is Susan, okay? None of this Sue crap."

She let go of his free hand, but continued to pin the hand that was on her breast firmly in place.

"Pinch my nipple," she said then. He just stared at her, open-mouthed. "Do it, Brian." He did it. "Harder. I'm not a fucking china doll. I won't break." He pinched her harder. She smiled. He swallowed. This was fucked up, Totally fucked up. But her tit felt great. Her nipple felt perky and hard.

Then, as unexpectedly as when she had grabbed his hand and placed it onto her breast, she pushed it away. Instinctively he resisted—for a second. His fingers were getting used to the feel of her full, round tit beneath the thin fabric of her summer blouse. But of course he let her push his hand away. Of course he did.

"Why'd you do that, Brian?"

"Do what?"

"Let me push your hand off my tit. You liked playing with my tit. Didn't you?" Again she was looking at him, looking into him, her blue eyes probing, prodding, like laser beams, like twin scalpels cutting into him, opening him up to her. . . . "Didn't you, Brian?"

"Well, I . . . yes. I mean, how could I not?"

She smirked at him, flicked her head back. Her light-blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid gold. "Then why'd you let me push you away, if you liked it so much?"

"Well I didn't want to touch you if you didn't want me to . . ."

"I told you before, you can touch my tits. Didn't I?" She shook her head. "See? Just like I said. You're a coward. A people-pleaser. You do what everyone expects of you. Don't want to step on any toes, or pinch any nipples, as the case may be. Doesn't that fucking get you down after a while, Brian? I mean, really. Don't you sometimes just want to be a fucking man every once in a while?"

He shook his head. She didn't know what she was talking about.

"Don't I? When was the last time you actually asserted yourself, Brian? Stood up for something you believe in? Or don't you even have any strong beliefs?"

What the hell was she doing? Just a minute ago she had him touching her tit. Now she was rambling about strong beliefs? Damn. Why did she have to be the one he sat next to? Why couldn't he sit next to some nice, quiet old woman with her nose in a book, or some hairy fat dude with a fantasy football magazine. Anyone would have been better than this wacko.

"What's your take on abortion?" she asked then.

Abortion? None of her business!

"I bet you don't have one. You can see both sides of the argument, right?"

He didn't answer. He wasn't going to be lured.

"How about the death penalty?" she pursued. "Should the murderers fry? Or just be put away?"

"Well . . ."

"Or the health-care crisis. You think there should be universal health care for everyone, Brian?"

"Well, that depends. I mean . ."

"See? Told you. You haven't got any firm convictions. You're fucking softer than cheese, Brian. I bet, when you go out to dinner with a date, you let her pick off the menu, for both of you. Am I right?"

Well . . . but what was wrong with being considerate? If his date didn't like what she ordered, she could always try what he had. And if she ordered for both of them, chances were she'd like at least one of the selections.

She shook her head again, peered out the window. Dusk was descending like a veil. Looking past her, out the window, Brian saw the glow of a farmhouse porch light as it flickered on, a beacon in a sea of prairie grass and cornfields.

"Pathetic," she said. "You're even worse than I thought. You probably don't even know who you are, Brian."

"Fuck you," he shot back.

"Mmmm, I'd love to," she said. "Where are you headed?"

That did it. Either this chick was high on something or a full-blown schizo. How else to explain it?

"Denver," he said. Why had he shared that? Why? Maybe she was right. Maybe he just went along with what other people wanted of him, expected of him. Maybe he'd been that way all his life, and just never really thought about it.

"How about that," she said. "So am I." Perfect. Just fucking beautiful. "Taking a vacation. A little R & R. Much deserved, if I do say so myself. How about you, Brian? You on a trip? Or is Denver home?"

"No. I'm going on business." Yes. Business. His boss told him he wanted Brian to attend a seminar. The company would pay for it. Brian couldn't believe the extravagance. In this economy? "It'll give you a deeper perspective and appreciation of what we're trying to accomplish," his boss said. "It'll be worth its weight in gold." Brian doubted this very much—thought the idea was stupid. He wondered if by going on this company-provided field trip, he was forfeiting his raise for this year. After all, there was only so much money to go around. . . .

But he didn't protest. If this is what the boss wanted him to do . . .

"Good," Susan said. "We can stay at the same hotel, then. I didn't make any reservations. Where are you staying?"

There was no way he'd tell her, no way he'd spend one minute with her after they disembarked from the train.

He told her.

She smiled, licked her lips. "We'll have fun," she said.

What was she talking about? Fun? She'd just told him he was pathetic.

"That doesn't mean I don't like you," she said. "It doesn't mean I don't think you're extremely fuckable. It doesn't even mean I think you're hopeless. I think I just might be able to help you, Brian."

He didn't want her damn help. He just wanted to be left alone. But he didn't say anything more about it. They still had a long night of travel ahead of them. Hopefully he'd fall asleep, and she'd fall asleep, and she'd forget the whole thing. When they woke up in the morning, they'd ride in silence, get off at Denver, and go their separate ways.

♣

"So, where's our hotel?" she said when they got off the train. It was morning, and a strong Rocky mountain sun was shining down on LoDo from a deep blue, cloudless sky. It was the kind of morning that might cheer you up, refresh you, instill you with optimism. But the circumstances being what they were, he felt anything but optimistic.

"Look, I . . ."

She touched his lips with her finger. He noticed how long and perfect her nails were. He'd noticed on the train, too. And he'd noticed other things. Her tits, of course. He'd been up close and personal with those. She was a knockout. Tall, slim, shapely, with full, sensuous lips and a thin, long nose that looked sharp enough to cut glass. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't attracted to her. But still, this was crazy.

"It's okay," she said. "I won't get in your way, Brian. I know you're here on business. So you do what you have to do. But we can still share a room. I'll find things to entertain myself, don't worry. But when you get back from your day, when I get back from my day . . . we can laugh and play and fuck each other's brains out all night long. Now. How does that sound?"

A wave of unreality crashed over him. This sort of thing never happened to guys like him. He didn't know if he should feel scared, bitter, ambivalent, or downright lucky. He looked her over again—the full breasts, the hour-glass figure, the long blonde hair. What the hell. When would he ever get another chance like this?

"That's the spirit," she said.

♣

He barely listened to the presentation at the seminar later that day. His mind kept wandering to Susan. He wondered what she would look like, unwrapped, naked, standing before him in their hotel room overlooking downtown Denver, with lust in those penetrating blue eyes. Without even being aware of it, he was getting a hard-on. But then he thought about the train ride, the way she had analyzed him, insulted him.

Told the truth.

She was right. He was a people-pleaser, had been all his life. It was such a default mode to him, he did it without thinking. He did anything and everything to fit in, to be liked. One time, on a trip to South Carolina, he'd even taken it upon himself to speak in a southern drawl. The funny thing was, he wasn't even aware of it until someone he was with pointed it out to him. Even now, that he was out West, he felt an urge to go buy himself a cowboy hat.

Well, what did it matter? He'd have fun tonight. If he could just focus on having fun, that was. Too often, when he had a chance at an attractive woman, he blew it. Performance anxiety, he supposed. He tried so hard to please her, to be the lover of her dreams, that all he ended up doing was cumming too soon, deflating too soon. One time, when he had a sexy Italian woman on her knees before him, her lips on his cock, he felt his manhood shrink, grow soft. He was worried that she might not like his dick, that he wasn't big enough, wasn't handsome enough.

The Italian woman slapped him, stormed away. She was insulted, and told him so. No man had ever gone soft while she sucked him before. He tried to stop her, tell her it was his fault, it had nothing to do with her. He was just nervous, insecure.

But it was too late. She was already gone.

♣

"So, how was your day, Brian?" she asked. It was seven thirty. They were sitting at the little round table by the window, which overlooked downtown. There was still a lot of activity on the streets below, but things were starting to mellow, at least momentarily—another workday having come and gone. Time for the residents to go home to their families for a quiet evening, or change into something more comfortable for a night on the town, or go to some bar and get plastered, bemoaning their mistakes, their rejections, their choices, their lost opportunities.

"Good," he said. She had bought a bottle of wine, and it stood there, between them, on the table. He poured himself a glass of it, offered to pour some for her. She nodded, held out her glass. "How about you?"

"Jesus," she said. "I must have spent about two thousand dollars today. I never realized Denver was such a great shopping town. I'll probably spend twice that much tomorrow."

Yeah. He'd kind of guessed she was rich. She had that feel to her. He looked out the window again. In the distance, to the west, the high peaks of the Front Range glistened like diamonds under the setting sun. He wondered if he'd get a chance to drive up into the mountains before he needed to head back East. He hoped so.

"So," she said, and stood up. She had downed her glass of wine already. "You ready to fuck?"

She wasn't one to beat around the bush, was she?

He should have just said yes, gotten lost in the moment, let her have her way with him, this luscious blonde whom he'd met by chance on his trip to the West. And all because he was afraid to fly. His boss had scoffed. "Flying is the safest way to go," he'd said, but he didn't mind sending Brian on the train. "Enjoy the ride," he'd said with a laugh.

But he wasn't able to get lost in the moment. He wasn't able to forget the things she had said to him on the train.

"How did you . . . how did you know?" he asked her. "I mean, how could you tell? You know, I mean . . ."

"How could I tell that you're a spineless people-pleaser, a phony, a fake?" she asked. He winced at her words. Why the hell did she want to fuck him? And what's more, why did he want to fuck her?

She took off her blouse, revealing a white lace bra. Her tits looked great, encased in that bra. D-cups. Well, okay—so there were good reasons why he wanted to fuck her. . . . But that still didn't answer the first question.

"Let's just say I have a knack," she went on, as she unzipped her slacks, pulled them down her long, toned legs. She had the legs of a colt—she had to be close to six feet tall, nearly as tall as he was. "I'm able to recognize people who are conflicted, who don't allow themselves to be real. I saw it in you right away, Brian."

"But . ."

She went to him, motioned for him to raise his arms above his head. He did. She took his shirt off, flung it onto the floor. She leaned in to kiss him. He wanted to push her away, talk some more. His whole life suddenly felt like a joke to him, a stage play, a façade.

But her lips were so soft and insistent. Her tongue so lively and skilled. How could he resist? They kissed for a long while, and she ran her long, manicured fingernails along his chest, scraping his nipples, twirling what little chest hair he had. She tasted so good, much better than the wine. And she smelled good, too. What was that perfume she was wearing? It was intoxicating, heightening his arousal.

Next thing he knew, she was undoing his belt, unbuttoning his dress pants, pulling them down. Before he could get his bearings, his briefs were down at his ankles and Susan was squatting before him, his cock in her hand, as she smiled up at him.

"I love giving head," she said.

He swallowed, took a deep breath. He was only five and a half inches. He had always been ashamed of that. Would she disapprove? Maybe she figured he was only half-erect, and when she played with him more, he'd grow and grow and grow.

But he wouldn't! He was fully erect now!

He felt her lips embrace his shaft. God! It felt good, too good. But she was too beautiful, she had probably fucked guys twice his size. She could easily walk into any bar in LoDo, right now, and get any guy she wanted. Why the fuck was she with him? He couldn't compete with those guys. He couldn't—

He felt himself deflate, as though someone had stuck a pin in his shaft, letting out all the air and blood and hormones. His cock shriveled up in her mouth.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Susan. I just got, um, a little nervous. I . . ."

She stood up, silenced him with a kiss. A good kiss, with a lot of tongue.

"It's okay," she said. "Don't worry about it."

How could she be so nice, so understanding? He guessed she'd put her blouse and slacks back on, race out of the room, and go find some other guy, some better guy, with whom to spend the night. And besides, she'd belittled him already, on the train. Why the turnabout now?

"Lie down, on the bed," she said. He did. She reached behind her, unhooked her bra, let it fall away. Her breasts were magnificent. And they were as tanned and bronzed as the rest of her. Next, she slid her panties down her legs. Her mound was shaved, hair-free. She was perfect, really. But all this knowledge did was make him even more nervous, made him feel even more unworthy of her.

He felt her hand on his dick, then her lips. Surprisingly, he became good and stiff again. Yeah, all five-plus inches. But her lips felt so good on his shaft. If he could just lose himself in the sensations, let himself give in. That's what she wanted of him, wasn't it? To let go? Not to worry so much about pleasing others? To just be himself?

He moaned as she licked his balls, and squeezed his shaft with her hand at the same time. Then she let go, scraped her fingernails along his underside, teasing, tantalizing. Suddenly he felt a surge, a rushing river, deep inside him. No! Not this. Not now. He'd let himself go, gave into the pleasure, and this was the result?

"Shit! I'm cumming," he said.

She stopped fondling him, leaned forward, put her mouth over his cock, and drank him in as he squirted into her mouth.

"Mmm, you taste good," she said when he had finished. She licked her lips.

"You're not mad?"

"Mad? Why should I be? Besides, we've only just started. I'll get you hard again in no time, trust me. Want me to show you?"

"Yes, please." God, he was pathetic. He really was.

Again she sucked him, again her fingers and her lips worked their magic on him. He loved the way her long blonde hair looked, loose, unencumbered, as it hung low over her face and tickled his stomach, his thighs, his groin. A blonde waterfall.

Sure enough, he was hard again.

She got up, went to her handbag, pulled out a condom. She bit into the wrapper, freeing the condom, and then draped it over his dick. He felt so stupid. He felt like a child, a boy—his dick was too fucking small to fill out the condom. It was made for a man, with a real dick, not a damn mini joystick. He was sure it wouldn't fit properly. But it did fit, and once again, she gave no hint, no sign, of disapproval with him.

She lowered herself onto him, and even through the condom he felt how moist she was, how warm and aroused her pussy. She was ready for a good fucking, wanting him to pleasure her, to bring her over the top. But could he? How did she like it? Slow or fast? Soft or hard? Should he thrust into her, or just lie back and let her ride him?

He felt conflicted—there were so many options! So many ways to screw this up. And if he screwed this up, he doubted she'd remain patient with him. He had to do his part, had to give her what she wanted.