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*Overheard*

by Meme Misspelt

Chapter One

It was Friday, things were slow in the office, and the boss was out. At about quarter after four Craig left his windbreaker draped over the back of his chair, and walked out the door, without making any deal of it, like he was just going to the restroom. He slipped down six stories of fire stairs and escaped into sunlight and the unseasonably warm late October afternoon. Free!

Usually the subways were jam-packed by the time he left work, but the afternoon rush was just barely starting --  the train he boarded was only about half-full and he got a seat to himself, where he liked to, at the end of the car, facing in, so he could see everyone and play the Game.

The rules of the Game were pretty simple: look at all the women on the subway car, and figure out which one you would most like to fuck. You weren't supposed to really stare --  well, except with a real winner, sometimes he couldn't help himself --  but the spirit of the game was to steal little glances, look for clues, and extrapolate what the woman would be like in bed.

Craig found that it was not necessarily about who looked the hottest (although calf-length black boots would often make Craig hard) --  it was more subtle, harder to define.

Sometimes a really pretty girl would also look a little chilly, like maybe she'd be worried about whether her hair was being mussed the whole time, and sometimes he'd get a sense of tremendous sexual energy from a woman who wasn't very attractive to him. And sometimes the Game really surprised him, like when he'd seen this woman, nothing special, not his type, but somehow, when he looked at her lips, all he could think of was what his cock would look like sliding between them. Or sometimes there'd be a young woman, and he wouldn't be quite sure of her age, like she might be a little too young for him to think of like that, and the allure of the forbidden, even the maybe forbidden, could get him pretty hot.

Craig thought he was basically a nice guy, generally respectful of women, and he was a little ashamed of the Game, but he couldn't ever really talk himself into giving it up, even when he was in a steady relationship, which he wasn't, anyway, at the moment. It sure made the time pass on his commute, for one thing. But more than that, it gave him an illicit charge, as if he were eavesdropping on who the women might be.

Today he grabbed his favorite seat, set his briefcase down on the floor, and unfolded his newspaper. The paper was key to the Dirty Game; it hid the tent of his erection, if he got one, and he could easily scan the car while pretending to read something at the top of the paper.

Warm weather late in the season was great for the Game; it seemed like the women were glad for one more chance to wear something that showed a lot of leg. It made for the best kind of tricky Game, the one where there were too many good choices and it was hard to settle on just one. As he usually did, he started at the opposite end of the car and worked towards himself. It heightened the anticipation, somehow, imagining that the winner might be right beside him, easy to see, maybe even checking him out a little, as he strained to see all the other women.

There was a young Asian woman at the far end of the car. He couldn't get a good look at her figure, but she had kicky little white ankle boots, and she wore her hair in a saucy cut. She was sitting next to a friend Craig couldn't see, and he liked the way she moved as she talked, little hand gestures, shrugs. She laughed a lot. Craig imagined her underneath him, her hands fluttering at her side, then reaching around his shoulders, her fine black hair splashed in an arc against his pillow as she tossed her head from side to side. He started to get hard.

A little nearer was a blonde in college-student casual, jeans and a light red jacket. She was close to being too frostily pretty, but she had a stud in her nose and three piercings in the ear closest to Craig, which went a long way toward making her seem less uptight. She was sitting alone, reading a book; Craig tried to make out the title, but couldn't. In the absence of evidence for or against, Craig fantasized that she had a tongue stud, too. He imagined her kneeling down in front of him, unzipping his fly with the long delicate fingers that held the book, and pulling out his cock. She would flick her tongue up and down his length, the wet soft flesh spliced with the hardness of that little metal bead. Craig decided she was the front runner.

Then he spied a dark horse candidate. Tall, a little gangly, in a slightly prim blouse and skirt combo, she kept her knees pressed firmly together, her posture straight. Her long brown hair hung straight. Was she as repressed as she looked, Craig wondered? Or was she trying to keep tight hold on her smoldering sexuality? Craig thought she might be the type of woman who would like being tied up. He pictured her on a grubby bed in a dingy motel room, the sheets crusty with dried cum, manacles on her wrists and ankles spread-eagling her, a ball gag muffling her moans. She was shaved, her lips puffy and open, wet with desire she couldn't control, her breasts larger than they looked in her blouse, stiff-nippled, gently rising and falling as she gasped and panted.

And finally, nearest him, in the seat just opposite, he found contestant number four. She was a few years older than Craig, mid-thirties, with a very trim figure under her expensive-looking dark business suit. She wasn't movie-star glamorous, but very cute, with pert, angular features. She had blazing red hair, a milky complexion, and wickedly green eyes. Those eyes sparked right back at him, and her red lips mouthed the word "pervert," and then flashed him a dizzying, salacious smile that made his cock lurch to even greater hardness in his pants. He lowered his eyes to his paper, embarrassed at being caught staring, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks.

A few seconds later logic caught up with his embarrassment. "Waitaminnit," he told himself. "Guilty conscience, Craig. She can't have said 'pervert,' you must be mistaken, boy-o. I only gave her a causal glance. She couldn't possibly know that I was thinking of how those small breasts would feel under my fingers."

*And why couldn't I?*

The voice was in his head, a contralto purr. It was gently chiding, teasing, but also playful. And sexy as hell. Craig shook his head, as if to clear it. Nuts, he told himself. Maybe I should quit this.

*You're right about your friend there,* the voice said again. *She does like to be tied up. She's quite thoroughly owned, though, and I'm afraid you're the wrong gender to be her mistress.*

An image flashed unbidden in his head, the brunette sprawled on the dirty bed, her head trapped between the redhead's legs as she knelt over her.

Her laughter was like a ripple of music in his head. *No, not quite my scene,*She chuckled. *Not today, anyway.*

Craig finally dared to look at the redhead again. She'd be looking somewhere else, doing something, she wouldn't be talking in his head. He'd come to his senses --

But she was staring straight at him. "Pervert," she mouthed again, and *Pervert* she said in his head. She gave him another of those unnerving smiles. *Not that I really mind. What was it you wanted to do to me again?*

"This is crazy," Craig told himself, a little frantically. "This isn't possible. I'm hearing voices, this isn't good, this is crazy."

*Oh, come on,* she said. *You were much more fun before. You had your hands on my tits, remember? You must have already unhooked my bra, you sly devil. My nipples were hard against your palms.* Her tongue darted out to flick at her lips, a motion so quick he wasn't quite sure he'd really seen it.

Craig swallowed. "Okay," he thought. "I move my hand in a circle, pressing hard against you. I catch a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, I tug and pinch a little."

*Mmm. Harder.* She arched her back a little.

--Unbuttoning two buttons of your blouse, pulling it open, I lower my mouth to your chest. I grab your nipple with my lips and flick my tongue across it. I slide my hand underneath the fabric up and down your side, I knead your breast.--

*It is kind of small, isn't it?* she asked a little wistfully. *Too small?*

--You know what they say about more than a mouthful.--

She giggled again. *That's a good answer! I shove my hand down your pants, wrap my fingers around your cock and squeeze.*

--I bite your earlobe. My tongue darts into your ear, and I blow hot, moist breath after it. 'You are so sexy,' I whisper.--

*Thank you! I pull my hand out of your pants --  *

Craig felt a flicker of disappointment, as if her touch had actually been withdrawn.

*. . . and unzip them. Let's get that cock out into the open air. I love to stroke the head like this --  *

--Sucking your tits, biting the nipple just a bit, hands sliding down to grab your ass --

*I lower my mouth to you. The head of your cock is in my mouth, but I've pulled my tongue away, you can only feel my breath. I don't have a tongue stud like that slut down the car, but I don't have herpes, either. Am I good enough to give you a blow job, or do you really need the extra stimulation of some metal?*

--Oh god, oh please --

*So what are you going to do for my pussy, lover?*

--I'm pulling down your zipper, teasing, stroking up and down your slit through your panties--

*I close my lips around your shaft, and I love your cock head with my tongue. Do you like it when I tickle right there, just under the head?*

--I feel your wetness even through the panties, pulling them aside now--

. . . and Craig could suddenly see it, actually see it, a beautiful, beautiful cunt, framed by soft golden hair, lips engorged and dewy. He could smell her musky aroma. It wasn't like a fantasy, it was more as if he were in two different places at the same time, with two sets of sensations overlapping in his brain. Across the aisle in real life, her eyes still locked with his, she spread her legs a few inches.

*Sucking you deep now, sinking you into my mouth, my teeth just barely grazing the root of your cock, you're filling my throat.*

--Slipping a finger into you, you're hot and wet, and clenching around my finger --

*Mmm. Let's take a few seconds to get out of these clothes, shall we?*

. . . and she was still sitting across the aisle from him, a playful little smile shivering on her lips, but she was also rising up from the bed where they lay together, arms crossed to pull the blouse over her head. He loved the contrast of those small dark nipples, so hard and straight on the gentle swell of her breasts, the taut lean belly. She turned away, like a stripper, to pull her pants and underwear down in a single smooth motion. She turned back to him, arms crossed over her head, legs spread wide, swung her hips in a little bump and grind.

--God, you're beautiful --

*Do I look good enough to eat?*

--C'mere!--

He was still sitting on the train, the paper falling forgotten across his lap, but he also lay back on the bed. She pulled his pants down, and he sat halfway up to shrug out of his shirt. She pumped her hand briefly on his dick, then turned to she straddle him in a sixty-nine position.

He arched his head up and introduced his tongue to her cunt with a long, leisurely bottom-to-top stroke, pushing in between her lips just a tiny bit. Her mouth returned to his cock, bobbing up and and down on him.

*Fingers too, please.*

He slid one finger into her pussy, then a second. His lips clamped down around her clit, tugged back and forth, and he began to thrust his fingers into her, twisting his hand, pushing against the walls of her cunt.

She sucked at him wildly, nibbling, licking. She pulled her mouth away and grabbed his dick with both hands, leaning lower to tease his balls into her mouth.

Craig lapped her cunt like a man dying of thirst while his fingers fucked into her with increasing force. He wondered, would she like --?

*Oh yess,* she hissed, *finger my ass!* and so his middle finger, slick with her juice, pushed gently against her anus, slipped through the tight collar of flesh, one knuckle deep, then two. *Oh, yeah, fuck me* her voice grew huskier, less playful. His thumb slid into her cunt, and his hand rocked back and forth, double-fucking her while his tongue lashed her clit.

*Oh, fuck, fuck me, I'm going to. . . *

And she clenched hard around his finger, mashed her pussy down hard against his face. . .

. . . and her eyes were half closed, her jaw slackened, and she shuddered once, twice, spasmodically.

*Oh, cum, cumming, cumming!*

She fell heavily against him, panting for a few seconds, her hands still curled tightly around his cock.

*I want you in me now. I want you to fuck me.*

--oh yes --

And she rose up, turned around. She rose high on her knees and rubbed his dick against her clit, then arched and slid him into her --

--oh fuck, you feel so good--

And she did. When she squeezed his cock from base to tip in a ripple of cunt-muscle flex, it wasn't quite like anything he'd ever felt before, like nothing he'd imagine. It took him almost over the edge instantly. Some small distant part of his mind reasoned that she must be sending physical sensations directly into his mind the same way she sent her voice into him, but most of him didn't care what was "really" happening; most of him was just swimming in the raw sensation. He was a piston, a machine thrusting up into her while she writhed above him, clenched around him.

She looked so sexy, breathing raggedly, eyes half shut, and he felt his peak rising in him, an unwelcome rush.

--oh no, too soon, too soon --

*We can't have that, can we?* she giggled. *Let's make it l-a-a-ast.* She pulled up and off of him. His cock flopped against his belly and his pulse slowed a little bit. The "real world" reasserted itself, like focus being pulled from long range to close up, he felt the bench underneath him and against his back, heard the rattle of the wheels against rails.

The train pulled into a station and slid to a long shuddering stop; the doors opened and a mass of commuters started to file in. One man started toward Craig's seat, where he sat, a little dazed, his newspaper strewn around him, but the woman got up with a quick, almost cat-like motion, and darted around him to sit next to Craig. The man snorted, annoyed, but didn't complain. She pressed a warm thigh against him and helped him gather up his paper, keeping about half of it on her own lap.

"Hi, Craig," she said, in the same warm voice with the same naughty teasing edge. "I'm Trish."

*I play your "Game" sometimes, too,* she continued. *But I have an advantage. I can see everyone's fantasies. Want to share?*

His cock lurched in his pants at the thought, and he could feel her reacting to his response, like some kind of feedback loop.

*I'll take that as a "yes."*

She leaned against his shoulder, as if she were dozing, and slid her hand carefully under the newspaper to put her hand in his crotch and started to knead his cock and balls. *Feel me up, will you?* she asked. *Now let's see. . . I think I like your bondage girl best. Cynthia is her name. . . *

Things were a little more complicated, a little more awkward in the real world, but even more exciting. He snuck a hand under the precarious pile of newspaper, to stroke a finger along the inside of her thigh. He slid down the zipper of her slacks one-handed, slowly, jiggling it to persuade it to follow the curve of her pubis.

*Cynthia doesn't like men, and she hates sucking cock --  bad experience, let's not go there --  but in her favorite fantasy --  she works as a secretary in a law firm --  and in the fantasy she delivers an envelope, a thick manilla envelope to her boss. . . *

He slipped two fingers in through the fly. Her panties were silk, and they were soaked. She was probably lucky her slacks were dark, he thought.

*What, you think that's coincidence?* She squeezed his cock hard. *Shut up and listen. He makes her wait while he opens it. Pictures spill out across his desk --  Polaroids, some glossy enlargements. They're all of Cynthia, she's naked in most, tied up in some of them, in one she's in a sling, hanging in the air, fucked in the pussy and in the ass by two women with strap-ons. . . you like that, don't you, naughty boy?*

It was close quarters inside the tight fabric of her slacks, but Craig finally got his fingers under her panties. There was a dizzy moment of deja vu --  the softness, the texture of her lips was just as he "remembered." He felt her legs spread a little wider, as he slipped just the tip of a finger into her.

*And he doesn't say anything for a long time, he just stares at the pictures while she stands there, terrified and ashamed. And finally he orders her to strip. "Take those clothes off, slut," he barks. "Now." Cynthia is wearing her very nicest suit, it's a month's salary to her, but she shrugs out of the jacket and just lets it fall to the floor. She keeps her eyes downcast, she doesn't look at him as he gets up from behind his desk. Her fingers tremble as she unbuttons her blouse and drops it. She's shaking a little as she unhooks her bra. She hears his footsteps as he walks toward her, around her, but she still doesn't look at him. She crosses her arms over her breasts, she's too scared to continue.*

Trish slipped her fingers down his waistband, she tangled her fingertips in his pubic hair, her nails barely grazing his throbbing cock. Craig moaned. His own fingers travelled up her cleft, found the hard little knob, circled it, teased it.

*"Did I tell you to stop, slut?" he growls. "Get that skirt off." And finally, she unhooks her skirt, lets it drop in a puddle around her. She knows what he is going to see. He makes a small sound of surprise as he sees it. She hears another rustle behind her, and knows her boss has taken his cock out of his pants. "Bend over, slut," he says. "Let me get a good look at that thing."*

Trish turned her head up toward him, and whispered the next words out loud, right into his ear in a blast of hot moist breath. "She leans over obediently, like she's touching her toes, displaying her ass. She's not wearing panties, of course. She's wearing this harness her mistress sometimes makes her wear. A dildo in her cunt," and the way she snaps the "t" when she says that word about blows Craig's mind, "and another one up her ass." Then she snuggles her head down on his shoulder again.

*The harness isn't very tight,* she continues. *All day long, every time Cynthia moves, she fucks herself, and it's like her mistress is fucking her by remote control. She can't cum, not until she's given permission. But now her boss knows, he knows what a submissive slut Cynthia is. He marches her down the hall, his hands on her waist, naked in her double-fucking harness, unsteady on her too-high heels, with his cock pressing hard against her ass, into the conference room, and all the male lawyers are there, and she knows they can smell her when she enters the room, how wet and horny it makes her to be naked in her harness in front of them, for them to all know what an obedient pleasure toy slut she is. It's so hard not to cum, but she can't, she's not allowed. She tries to be as still as she possibly can, to stop the friction, but she's trembling, and the dildos slide in and out of her, just a fraction of an inch, and the front of the harness rubs her swollen clit. She's so close.*

The train began to slow again, and Trish gently pulled his hand out of her slacks, and her hand out of his pants. She stood up, swaying a little as the train stopped. She didn't zip up.

"This is where I get off," she said. "Are you coming?"

. . . and *cumming?* her voice echoed in his mind.

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