From: redragon@interserv.com

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

   Subject: danger

   Date: 14 Sep 1995 23:06:35 GMT

   Organization: InterServ News Service

   Message-ID: <43achr$m64@data.interserv.net>

   Danger

   A girl leans against the window of the 93 bus as it lurches downtown. 
She seems a little frightened.  Thick red-gold curls are cut off abruptly
at the base of her neck, and green eyes are fringed by bright green-painted
lashes.  A smear of glitter-gel decorates her cheek.  Her face is flushed:
she looks feverish.

   Complicated earrings, fractals of golden loops, nearly brush her
shoulders.  A small gold labyris hangs on a thread around her neck.

   The girl is playing with the keys in her hand.  The idle gesture looks
strangely deliberate.  Her fingers are slim and pale, the nails cut short
and dotted with gold star and moon decals.

   Nineteen, perhaps, and young-looking.  She chews her lip and stares out
the window.

   Outside it is raining, and dark except for the blurred streetlights. 
She cannot see the moon.

   She wears a loose, sleeveless green cotton blouse shot with gold
threads, and a mustard- colored gauze skirt.  Her legs are slim and furred
with delicate blonde hairs.  When she reaches to rub the back of her neck,
stiff from leaning against the cold pane, it shows the rough red-brown hair
under her arm.

   Her shawl, a soft mix of yellow and green, is folded loosely in her lap.

   The bus is warm.  She smells of sandalwood and new perspiration.  Her
odor is faintly reminiscent of coffee.

   Someone is watching her closely enough to observe her fear, the small
hairs on her legs, her scent.

   * * *

   What is this girl doing on the bus at midnight, her fingertips
glittering, delicately and methodically arranging her keys?  The truth is
that she is going to see her lover.  Uninvited and

   unannounced, she may not be welcome.  This forms a part of her
nervousness.  She may find her lover asleep and angry at being woken, or in
bed with somebody else.

   With each turn the bus takes, she feels more dreadfully that it was a
mistake to leave the dormitory.  There is no way to return: she only has
enough change to ride in this direction, and will have to borrow money from
her lover to go back in the morning.

   The abrupt yearning to see her lover, which impelled her onto this bus,
now seems puzzling and remote.  She almost dreads her arrival.  Her lover's
apartment is four blocks away from the bus stop, and the stretch of road
she will walk along is dangerous at night.  Now she imagines herself being
stabbed to death.  The quick violence and pain do not frighten her so much
as the picture of her body lying in the dark street, bleeding into the
rain. It seems an image of absolute waste and futility, and for a moment
she thinks she will cry.

   * * *

   Two seats to the girl's right, a woman is watching her.  She has spiky
black hair with a brief shock of white in the front.  Her skin is pale, her
eyes very dark.  Her right ear and the right side of her nose are pierced
with small silver rings.

   The woman's frayed jeans are tucked into black boots.  She wears a worn
black T-shirt under a black leather jacket.  Her face is angular, wolfish
and beautiful.  She stares at the girl's hands.

   The girl is nineteen, and young-looking.  Her name is Cynthia.  She
dislikes the name and answers to Cyn, enjoying the pun.  She is a sophomore
in college: pretty, impulsive, and easily amused.

   None of this appears to interest the woman in black.  She is looking at
what the girl does with her keys.  She arranges them one by one between her
fingers--first her own two keys, then her lover's--and carefully closes her
hand into a fist.  When she finishes, the keys are a row of blunt metal
spikes: her hand is a weapon.

   The dark woman moves quietly into the seat next to her.  Cyn turns,
startled.  Her fist tightens.

   She breathes the woman in layers, like gauze veils.  The first veil is
tobacco smoke, clinging to her jacket and hair.  Beneath that is the smell
of scuffed leather.  Then the girl breathes the faint, peppery scent of her
skin.  Underneath it all is the perceptible odor of sex.  The woman could
have come from a lover's house, or from a bar with a dimly lit back room.
She could have been touching herself, silently, while the girl stared out
of the window.

   Inhaling near this woman, you think: smoke, leather, skin, cunt.  She
moves like a predator.  In a moment Cyn expects a leather-wrapped arm
around her shoulder, smoky breath in her face, a proposition.

   * * *

   The woman does not move to touch her.  Her voice is soft, deep and
cigarette-roughened.  The girl is as startled by the tone of unexpected
sympathy as by the words: "Are you all right?"

   She was not ready for kindness from this beautiful, tough leather-dyke.

   She relaxes her fist, relieved, disappointed, grateful.  Her eyes ache
and her throat tightens.  If she speaks, she is afraid that she will cry.
She nods and attempts a weak smile.

   "Worried about getting home in one piece?" The voice is soft, gravelly,
gentle and only slightly amused.  It strokes the girl like a lambswool
glove.  Cyn manages a more convincing half-smile, and nods again.

   The woman makes her words casual to reassure the girl, watching her
face. "You'll be okay.  Muggers don't like the rain, you know.  When it's
like this outside, they stay home, yell at their girlfriends, watch pro
wrestling, eat TV dinners."

   Again Cyn nods, wordless, feeling vulnerable and foolish and close to
laughter.

   "My name's Morgan..." the woman begins, and pauses.  She flashes a
sudden, wry grin.  "Did somebody tell you not to talk to strangers?"

   The girl finally laughs.  "No, I just--oh, I don't know.  Bad mood, bad
night." She shrugs apologetically.  Her voice is soft and light: it
flickers like a candle.  "My name's Cyn."

   "Sin?  As in mortal?"

   "Venial, mostly." A dimple forms like a comma by Cyn's mouth.  She is
flirting a little, still nervous.

   The woman's eyes crease in a warmer smile.  Her voice is teasing.  "So
nobody told you not to talk to strange women on the bus.  Where are you
going at this hour, anyway?"

   "I'm meeting someone." The words are meant to be a warning, but Cyn's
voice trembles on the "someone".  She sounds frail and unconvincing.

   The woman's voice hardens.  "So have fun with Someone.  Congratulations,
Someone.  Tell Someone I said hi." She seems about to move away.

   Cyn's voice is small, her chest tight, her words clipped.  "I'm breaking
up with-- someone." As she speaks, she realizes that is it true.

   "Oh." The leatherwoman's voice is heavy with sudden compassion.  "Shit.
I'm sorry."

   "It's okay." Cyn is not crying: her own dry eyes surprise her.

   * * *

   Morgan hesitates before speaking again.  "So you're going to
tell--someone--that you're leaving?  In the middle of the night?"

   "I guess so." The girl grimaces.

   "And then you sit on a corner in one of the worst parts of town and wait
for a bus to take you back home?"

   "Right.  But first--" Cyn's laugh is shaky-- "I have to ask her for
fifty cents for the bus."

   She barely notices that she has identified her lover as a woman.

   Morgan gives a short laugh.  "Never rely on an ex-lover for your ride
home.  I can lend you the change." Before the girl can protest or thank
her, she goes on: "But you should wait out the night before breaking it
off--just to be safe.  Sleep over, break up in the daytime, get home in one
piece.  It's one thing to walk a few blocks by yourself, another thing to
hang around a bus stop for

   forty minutes in the dark."

   "I can take care of myself." The girl pushes her shoulders back and
tosses her head in a gesture of forced bravado.  "I'm pretty tough," she
adds challengingly.

   She sounds defiant and silly.  Morgan smiles, a little admiring and much
amused.  Her eyes drop to the girl's fist, looser now but still studded
with keys.

   "You know," she says casually, "nothing like that is going to do you
much good unless--" Swiftly she pins both Cyn's arms behind her back, in a
firm twist which leaves the girl, not hurting, but unable to move her arms
or shoulders without pain.  "--you know how to use it." Morgan's tone is
still gentle.

   * * *

   Cyn breathes in sharply.  The woman waits a moment, holding her still,
staring at her face.  "Why don't you scream?" she asks softly.  "The driver
will hear you.  Scream, and I'll let you go."

   A rush of adrenaline: Cyn's own heart thuds in her ears, filling her
head like the ocean sound of a cupped shell.  She feels as if she is
hanging over a cliff, about to let go.  Her voice is a whisper: "No."

   Morgan leans over and begins fucking the girl's ear with her tongue.

   Cyn's breath flutters like a trapped bird's wings.  A moist shiver
passes over her skin.  When Morgan presses a knee between her legs, she
grinds her hips against the denim, keeping her upper body as still as she
can.  She winces when one movement sends a stab of pain through her

   upper arm.

   Morgan's free hand runs along the girl's thigh, pushing her skirt up. 
She finds the silky fabric of her underwear, probes inside it.  She presses
her forefinger and thumb into the moist cunt, then pushes in with a third
finger.  Her last two fingers force slowly into the girl's asshole,
ember-hot and tight as a trap.

   Cyn feels completely filled, stretched open, at some sort of breaking
point.  She is at the rough boundary between pleasure and pain.  The
leatherwoman fucks her with quick, twisting movements of her whole hand. 
Closing her mouth over Cyn's, she matches each dizzy thrust with a stab of
her tongue.

   Every motion of the girl's upper body brings pain in her arms.  She
forces herself to keep almost entirely still.  Unable to diffuse her
tension in movement, she feels the pulse between her legs more intensely.

   When she comes, her cry is muffled by the leatherwoman's mouth.

   * * *

   Morgan releases her, withdraws her hand.  Cyn drops the keys: they hit
the floor of the bus with a metallic clatter.  She kneels on the floor in
front of Morgan, kissing her slick come-scented fingers.  Her mistress
strokes her face gently.

   "I've missed my stop," Cyn murmurs absently.

   Suddenly she reaches to push Morgan's black T-shirt up, exposing full
breasts and skin like hot cream.  For a moment the leatherwoman seems too
startled to move.

   Morgan's dark, brownish nipples are pierced with silver rings that match
the ones in her nose and ear.  It only takes the girl a moment to hook her
fingers through them and twist.

   The nipples harden abruptly.  Morgan gasps in mixed outrage, arousal and
pain.  Cyn holds the rings tightly, grinning like an impudent child.

   Morgan does not make another sound.  Her hands are quick to find the
girl's small breasts under her blouse, and her fingers close on the pink
nipples like clamps.

   As she wrenches Cyn's nipples slowly around, her face stretches into a
narrow-eyed grin that says: I can hurt you much more than this.

   The girl whimpers and lets go of the rings in Morgan's nipples.  The
woman keeps twisting, giving her a few moments' worse pain.

   Cyn's eyes shine with tears.  "I'm sorry," she says quickly, keeping her
voice low.  "I'm sorry.  Please stop.  Please." When she is on the verge of
sobbing, Morgan releases her nipples.

   Cyn drops her head, ashamed.  Her breasts will hurt for a week.

   * * *

   When she looks up, she sees Morgan unzipping her jeans.  Sliding them
down her pale thighs, she opens her knees wide.  Cyn stares at the wide
vulva, framed in black curls.  The smell of sex is overpowering.  The wet,
raw, open sex is poised over Cyn's face.  Without a word she begins to
tongue it, on her knees like a mute penitent.

   It is like diving in a warm sea, the sea smell all around and waves and
darkness and salt liquid in her mouth.  Then it is like drowning.  She rubs
her whole face in the slick hollows, not only her mouth: fucks the woman
with her nose, rubs her with her cheeks, presses with the hard bone of her
chin.

   Her face buried between Morgan's legs, Cyn rubs her own crotch against
the leatherwoman's boot.  The dark leather is smeared with slick fluid.

   The girl comes first, moaning into Morgan's groin.  The sound brings
Morgan to her own climax: she grinds furiously against Cyn's face.

   Finally she relaxes in her seat.  "Okay," she says softly.  "Okay."

   Cyn will not stop.  She moves her head, her tongue, in a wet frenzy,
burrowing into the soft ocean bed between Morgan's thighs.  She is drunk
like a wild fish on the woman's taste, her smell.

   A second orgasm swallows Morgan and then another.  In an angry ecstasy,
she hisses: "Bitch, bitch..." Finally she has to tighten both hands in the
girl's hair to pull her away.

   For a moment Cyn expects some kind of punishment.  She stares up
anxiously into Morgan's face, crosses her hands over her breasts.

   Morgan pulls the girl up into her lap, and takes her in her arms.  The
girl's face rests on her chest: the moisture on her cheek wets the shirt.

   Cyn wraps her arms around Morgan, thinking of leather and smoke, and
rests on her body.  She feels comforted and oddly safe.

   * * *

   "My stop's coming up soon," the woman says.  "I can leave you here with
fifty cents to get back, get off wherever you like.  Or you can come home
with me.  Up to you."

   "I don't know," Cyn says slowly.  "You hurt me."

   The topwoman blinks.  "Oh, you mean this?" Her fingers brush the
underside of Cyn's breast, avoiding the sore nipple.  The girl nods.

   Morgan shrugs.  "That was self-defense...and, all right, a few seconds
of discipline."

   "You enjoyed it." The girl's voice is flat.

   "If I ever try and tell you that I didn't, I'll be lying." Morgan looks
Cyn in the eye.  "But I'm not trying to get you home so I can beat you up.
Even if you asked me to, I'd be too tired.  All I have in mind is a cup of
ginseng tea and a night's sleep, then getting you on a bus home in the
morning.  I doubt I'll jump you when I wake up--I'm not really awake or
friendly before noon--but if I do, I'll be reasonably gentle."

   Cyn smiles uncertainly.  Morgan pulls the cord to signal her stop, and
zips her jeans.

   "Up to you." She presses fifty cents into the girl's hand.  "Whatever
you do, don't forget your keys."

   Cyn picks them up, and follows her off the bus.

   /shadows/