Chapter 1: blue moon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humiliation Sex  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by Graham Makem

Reads: 129



Chances, opportunities like these, came once in a blue moon for a loner like him. It was close, clammy, hot, humid, airless on the train. The hottest night of the year. A storm was brewing. Outside. Inside his mind. He struggled to control his breathing, overwhelmed by the sight of her asleep in the opposite seat. Other than mice, feeding on scraps, foraging beneath their seats, they were alone. On the last train home.

One of her slim hands was gripping an empty plastic water bottle. She slumped into her seat. Her dimpled chin fell onto her chest. The shiny beige satin blouse she barely wore was unbuttoned as far as her midriff. Her fair bare legs were exposed by a fluid blue ditsy miniskirt, a pair of scuffed cognac slingback sandals.

Blue moon. A creature of the night. Paleskin dreams. The girl on everyone’s lips. His lips,


Baby blonde hair. She had baby blonde hair, neatly parted down the middle, swept behind her ear, one side hanging loose, the other draped, touching her chest. Darkening her face. He studied her closely. Her nose was broken at the bridge, an obscene bulge, her glans, swelled the tip. Her lips appeared to be synthetic, bloated pink rubber bands, split in the middle. He wondered if they were injected with Botox, needle-probes, to prise them apart.

Her mouth opened. The gaps in her crooked teeth were unnaturally large: dark spaces. In her mouth she hid her tongue. Her pencil thin brows rose, and one sleepy eyelid opened, revealing a glassy grey eye. She had a tiny caramel mole on her throat. It moved whenever she smiled. She grinned, stretching her elasticated lips, exposing a mouthful of teeth. Not her tongue. Mae didn’t show her tongue to anyone, until it was too late.

He regarded her fingers. She wore no gold, silver, platinum. There could never be a ring,

‘Mae,’ he said, leaning forward brazenly in his seat. She watched him open his legs.

Cocky. He’s so cocky. How is it, my young prey are so cocky? So easy for me. Easy meat.


She unfolded her legs, uncrossing them so that he could get a good butchers of her thighs. His eyes widened. She wasn’t wearing any panties tonight. Mae must have slipped them off in the stultifying heat. He sweated profusely, his charcoal grey-mottled shirt buttoned right up to his thick swarthy neck, arms buttoned down to his wrists, the chunky gold watch sticking to him, coated with intimate moisture.



She held her tongue, primed, ready to strike, pressing hard against the backs of her teeth, bursting to get out. He had wiry chestnut hair, balding at the temples, thin and patchy on top, glistening with his man-dew.

That’ll have to go, the head. His head’s no good to me. I could always bury it in the yard.

The buttons on his shirt were white. On the tapered chest he wore a breast pocket. Home, she saw, to a rectangular shape. Debit card? Season ticket?

Cut it into slithers! Melt the watch. Burn his shirt on a bonfire, in my yard. And his jeans.

Jeans! In this heat? The fool-on-the-hill. He lived on Pouting Hill, she recalled.

Attractive wife: brunette, fleshy, succulent, chewy, doughy, tough, sinewy Sal.

Two kids.

Fat, porky, Justin: roast him in the oven on a bed of roots till nicely browned, serve with apple sauce?

Mindy: chicken’s legs, de-skin, bone her thighs, shallow fry in clarified butter, serve them with a tart red wine sauce?

Mae’s disruptive mind returned to her willing prey. He was craving her. Stupidly, he leaned forward, his thick cotton shirt stuck to his back, left hand at rest on his knee, flashing his huge Swiss watch at Mae, failing, entirely, to impress her.

His jeans were tight. She made him bulge. Couldn’t speak. Could never speak. Mute. She scratched the insect bite above her right breast, raking at her itchy, pallid skin. He watched her slim digits scratch herself, feverish, animalistic, above her breast.

Mae eyed his tanned hand, resting calmly, patiently, on his kneecap. The young prey had stubby fingers, short, clean nails, bitten to the quick. She smiled, mute, her teeth clenched, holding back, just about controlling her pushy, probing tongue,

At least, he’s got clean hands.

He made his move. An elbow bent at the joint, pulling at the sleeve, forcing his hand into a neat fist, exposing the slick matt of soaking wet hair coating his forearm. The prey had a hound dog smirk on its face, underneath the light brown beard, scrawny moustache. He propped his chin with a fist, gazing at Mae from under his bushy brows, hooded eyelids, using his piercing nut-brown eyes to consume her attention. His eyes, circled with brown: tiredness, stress, sex, self-gratification?

‘Mae,’ he said, gently, ‘I’m Nick. I keep a discreet pied-a-terre, a secret, by the common. Will you come there with me, please?’

She shook her head, reached across the divide, and held his hand to her bared right breast.


She shook her head sadly, running her fingers over her stretched pink lips, couldn’t speak.


She nodded, smiled, held her tongue, bit her tongue. Her smile told Nick, all he needed,

I have a better idea.

The train stopped. The doors slid open, gushing out hot air. They stood in silence, holding each other. Mae smiled.

Time to get off, with Nick.

Submitted: January 14, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Isla McNair. All rights reserved.


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