Book Excerpt for Free Flower

~Free Flower~

Paragonas Vaunt

SAMPLE TEXT

You set your alarm for an early start.

It's not really necessary. But you like to take plenty of time over your preparations, and it's part of your routine now, a way to centre yourself for the day ahead.

Besides, you ought not miss a moment.

Not of this day.

So it is still dark outside the window as you run yourself a bath and sink into the steaming, fragrant water to scrub and rub and smooth yourself down, checking and cleaning, primping and pampering every part of your body, from top to toe.

Afterwards, wrapped in your softest towel, you brush your long hair with smooth, slow strokes, until it lies glossy and knot-free against your skin, ready to be tied into a neat pony tail.

Your work clothes are already neatly laid out on the bed beside you. While you're waiting for your nail polish to dry, you steal a glance at what you'll be wearing.

You've worn this particular outfit before. You'll do so again, if it survives. It's a favourite, a comfort and friend, and its style is appropriate to the demands of this day. Sometimes it feels as if this is the only event for which you really, properly, dress up now.

The month's main event.

Shedding your towel to stand naked by the bed, you pick up the first item, a slender suspender belt, in black lace, which fastens snugly around the narrow pinch of your waist.

Slowly, deliberately, you roll your stockings up, taking care to ensure they sit just right, making sure the back seam is perfectly straight before you clip them on. You know the hands you run over your freshly-waxed calves and thighs will be the last caress they receive before whatever happens today, so you stroke yourself almost in reassurance before trapping your smooth skin in nylon.

Everything must be perfect when you walk out the door. And you want it to be perfect. There may be no time to fix anything later.

Next the bra, also black lace, which accentuates your high breasts, the underwire helping create a generous cleavage.

No panties.

Now the dress. Deep red, blood red, slightly shorter than mid-thigh. With a little stretch in the material, it hugs your curves tightly. There are gold buttons all down the front. Real working buttons, not simply decorative. You leave the top button undone to show a little of that cleavage.

Still no panties.

Carefully you apply your make-up. Foundation, mascara, blusher, not too much, a splash of ruby on your lips, to offset the dress.

A dab of perfume at your throat, another behind each of your knees.

A gold watch on your left wrist, a bracelet on the right. A necklace with a small pendant which you tuck down between your breasts. Matching earrings.

Black stilettos.

No panties.

You check yourself carefully in the mirror.

Dressed this way, you are the perfect image of the powerful businesswoman, an icon of feminine confidence. Above the waist, at least.

Below, well... that's a little less business-like.

Overall, there is the sense of something powerful hidden the merest breadth of a thought beneath your decorous facade, barely glimpsed. An intimation that if a person knew how to approach you, from just the right angle, they would see what lies beneath.

What lies are beneath.

There is one more preparation you must make.

From the smallest drawer of your dressing table you take out a small cardboard packet. Beneath its flap there is a wad of coaster-sized discs of pink crepe paper.

The packet once held a hundred of them. Barely half now remain.

You take out three pieces of paper, just three, and with hands bearing the confidence of experience, yet still with a slight tremor in your fingertips, you neatly fold each one into a little pink flower.

There is a gold clasp in the drawer too, and you clip the flowers into it, then pin the ensemble to the left breast of your dress.

The rose pink flowers don't quite match the deep red of your dress, but that's okay.

They are not meant to.

You check your bag, make sure you have your keys, your phone, your make-up.

You add a little packet of tissues.

Just in case.

And then you take your red dress, and your suspenders, and your stockings and your shoes, and your three flowers and your no panties, and you step out through the door of your flat to meet the day.

You take your normal route to work.

Even knowing what day it is, you force yourself to walk calmly through the turnstile, riding the down escalator towards an underground platform you know will already be packed with morning commuters. The onrush of a train far below blows stale air up your dress, reminding you - as if you could forget - how open you are beneath.

If you could have, you might have halted there, backed nervously away from the fate awaiting you at the end of your descent. But how could you? You are on the downward plunge, carried inexorably forward towards your destiny, by the gravity of its pull, by physical gears and pulleys, by the turning wheels of your own mind. Your feet would have carried you even without the escalator.

It is too late to turn back now.

A train is leaving the platform as you arrive, girding itself for the plunge into darkness, its strength and power building as it drives onward towards a tunnel barely broad enough to accommodate its girth. The very earth seems to groan with the air forced from its depths by the passage of this intruding, impatient thing.

And then it is gone.

The faint whisper of a sigh on the refractory air is the only sign it was ever there.

On the platform you stand stiffly, staring fixedly ahead at the billboards plastered on the opposite wall of the tunnel as yet more people pack around you, crowding into that narrow ledge between safety and onrushing peril. Everybody is in their own little world. Part of the crowd, yet apart from it.

You, however, are more keenly aware than usual of the ebb and flow of people around you.

A man steps in close behind. You don't turn your head to look at him. Of course you don't - the very idea! But you can tell he is there, standing a little too near, inside your personal space.

But what is personal space, especially in the rush hour, especially on this day?

Today, your personal space is public space.

A train bursts from the tunnel to your right, all driving power and bullish, aggressive noise. The air it pushes before it has never seen sunshine, never felt rain, yet still it is warm and slightly damp, and it speaks of dark places, unnameable places, far beneath yet closer at hand than one might ever dare to acknowledge.

The crowd jostles for position at the doors as the carriages come to a halt. You're a regular, so you know exactly where to stand. The doors stop directly in front of you and the crowd surges, pressing close, a tide sweeping you forward. You catch a brief glimpse of the man's reflection in the glass before the door slides back and you are carried forward into the carriage.

He is tall, and he is wearing a suit.

That's all you know.

You don't bother to check whether there is a place to sit. There won't be, and anyway you don't want to mark the seat of your dress. Not this early. So you find a standing place at one of the vertical poles, grabbing it with one hand, the other distractedly playing with the shoulder strap of your bag.

The man stands behind you.

His hand rests just above yours on the pole, his fingers beside yours, not quite touching. The sleeve of his suit is dark, pin-striped. Expensive-looking. His cuff-links are gold.

He is standing so close that your head is almost in the pit of his arm. You can feel the buttons of his shirt tickling the hairs on the back of your head as he breathes, and you catch a faint trace of his cologne.

You glance around the carriage, take in the press of people around you, everybody but him.

You cannot look at him.

A handful of the other women in the carriage are wearing pink flowers on their lapels. Most have three, like you do. One, a wide-eyed redhead with flushed cheeks on her flustered face, only has two.

The man behind you is so close that when he unzips his pinstripe trousers you feel the vibration through the back of your dress, right at the base of your spine, even if you can't hear the sound.

As the train lurches into motion, the hand you can see, the one that grips the pole above yours, clenches tighter, the knuckles whitening.

Bracing.

And then his other hand is on you. It has to be his hand, you know it for a certainty even though you can't see it, because it is tight in that narrow space between your bodies, between your firm buttocks and his open fly.

He is lifting your dress, dragging up the hem, up the backs of your thighs and over your buttocks, baring you as matter-of-factly as if he were unwrapping a pack of post-it notes. There is no surreptitiousness about the act at all. He is just doing it plain, as if it is completely natural to pull up a stranger's dress on a packed commuter tube train.

Your free hand clutches reflexively at the strap of your bag, torn in indecision. Should you stop him? Perhaps you should stop him, because if he lifts your dress he will find you are open beneath. He will unfurl your secret.

But it is too late. He has done it.

He has found you.

Now he is stooping, his knees flaring wide around yours, to get beneath you, to match his hips to yours, and you feel the bulging head of his cock brush against the backs of your legs, pressing against the divide.

He is erect.

Automatically you shift your feet slightly apart, as if balancing yourself against the movement of the train, but the effect is to brace your position against him as you feel the warm, silky head of his hardened cock slide between your thighs, probing for you.

You feel it, girding itself for the plunge into darkness, its strength and power building as it drives onward towards a tunnel barely broad enough to accommodate its girth.

This man doesn't know you. You don't know him.

How can he be doing this?

Without really thinking, you move your feet still further apart, bending forward at the hips just a tiny bit, your actions not exactly trying to make the right angle for him, not specifically, but not making it harder for him than it needs to be either. The man makes the only sound he is going to make, a slight grunt of what may be thanks, and he slips into you.

All the way up inside you he goes, just like that. Your whole body seems to sigh with the air forced from its depths by the passage of this intruding, impatient thing. Your spine arches, your body pinioned, your shoulder blades pressing back against his chest as you curve on the intrusion spearing rudely up into you.

It has taken less than a minute since you both stepped onto this train for this strange man to get his strange cock inside you. Impossibly, unbelievably inside you.

His pelvis squashes against your bared buttocks and he is fully seated, your body lifted on tip-toes by the power of his first, claiming thrust, your passage's cloying grasp on his cock both an embrace and a rejection.

The man's movements, for all their brazenness, have been quite subtle, not drawing attention to himself. But his cock, that is not subtle at all. It is hard, fierce, pitiless, and you can't help but groan aloud.

It is far from the only sound you are going to make before this ride is over.

Nobody in the carriage has been watching your predicament until suddenly they all are, and you flush with embarrassment at their naked gaze, drawn by the noise you couldn't stifle.

It's all your fault.

Your red dress is fully up around your waist, so the seated passengers in front of you can clearly see your exposed mound, blatantly on display, right at their eye level. They watch you with interest, openly staring at your beleaguered vulva, at the tight dark crown of curls above it, at the wicked intrusion of the girthy cock starting to work back and forth between your glistening folds. Their faces are attentive, slightly amused even, and you try to look somewhere else to avoid meeting their gaze.

You want to tell them it's not your fault, that you didn't put that thing there.

You didn't ask for this.

Well, did you?

Some of your onlookers go back to whatever they were doing, reading newspapers or examining phone screens, while the remainder carry on watching to see what happens next.

You are not sure which group embarrasses you more.

The man behind you is strong and single-minded. He has one hand about your waist, palm on your belly, fingers splayed to keep you anchored on his cock. His other hand steals down from the pole to fasten over your right breast.

He is now relying on you for his balance, and that means you are obliged to push your hips back on him to brace both your positions and keep you from falling in a tangled heap as the train moves unpredictably.

Did this man have the right to do this? Did he have the right simply to pull up your dress, to uncover your lack of panties, to put his cock in you then?

But he knew, didn't he? Even before he touched you, he knew what he would find when he lifted your hem. More than no panties. Much more.

Because you told him.

You told everyone.

He got exactly what you were looking for.

His pace quickens, and so does his breathing against the nape of your neck. You try to ignore his presence, both behind you and in you, as if by not acknowledging him you can make this thing - his thing - go away, or at least finish sooner, and that way you won't have to acknowledge how it feels to have it inside you, deep inside you there. You try to think about work instead, or what you are going to have for dinner tonight, but it is so hard to concentrate. So you look around the carriage again, searching for a distraction.

The redheaded woman with the two flowers on her lapel seems to have disappeared.

There is a gap in the sea of heads where she once stood, and a man is staring down into that gap, his face a mask of concentration. There is a suggestion of movement about the part of his body you can see above the crowd which has no relation to the motion of the train.

From the angle, you suspect he is probably in her mouth.

He'll probably be in her vagina when he finishes.

Through all your preparations for today, you've tried not to think about that part of you, about that space between the folds, the dark stigma between your pink petals. You know, from experience and from the way your subconscious has been fluttering at you, all about that hollow space inside, the ache you carry with you always. You knew only too well, from the moment you rose this morning, that this moment would come, yet still you are surprised afresh at the intensity of your body's electrified, quivering reaction as this man's cock divides you, spreads your channel wide with his girth, each driving thrust plunging deep into your body to fill that keening hollow.

The perfunctory nature of the thing is what always astounds you most, and leaves you most breathless. Here you are, on this packed commuter train, and this man you have never met, never spoken to, whose face you have never seen, has just opened you up to his plunging cock. He didn't bother even to say hello or shake your hand first, let alone use his fingers to explore you beneath the privacy of your dress, test your readiness. He had little idea, and even less care, what effect his cock would have on you. It was all about his need. And his need was basic. Primal. So he simply reduced you, and then traduced you.

And you let him, didn't you?

Maybe you even helped him a little.

Because there's an imperative even deeper than his lust, and you are both dancing to its ancient tune.

Your body's own betrayal is something you can never quite get used to. Your legs are unsteady, perhaps the dizzying motion of the carriage, perhaps an unexpected weakness.

Perhaps you are coming down with something.

The cock inside you is thick, uncompromising. It moves ceaselessly, in short, hard thrusts that bang home against the backs of your thighs and your buttocks, and never withdraw far enough to risk slipping out to a random lurch of the train. And you are powerless to prevent yourself meeting it.

With each inward plunge you rise up on tip-toes, as if at first shying away from the thrust, your heels slipping out of your shoes. And then, at his peak, you push yourself down onto him, firmly lock the tip of his cock home at the crest of your channel with a thudding bump against your furthest reach, driving the air from your lungs in deep, breathy gasps.

You feel the material of the man's suit, the scrape of his zip against your soft flesh as you squirm against him, and you bridle at the asymmetry of your exposure.

This man needed only to open his fly to get his cock into action. Not for him the requirement to show his pale white buttocks, pumping rhythmically as he works you, not for him the obligation to display any nakedness to the crowd. They can only see his face and his hands. You yourself can only see his hands. Yet by contrast here you are, your entire median from waist to stocking-tops obscenely on show to an audience of Tuesday morning commuters.

Still, as your eyes lose focus you steal a thought of what his naked buttocks might look like if they were unclad, his muscles bulging and flexing as he puffs his way to a climax that is clearly near at hand.

If he would just move that hand on your belly a bit lower, he could kill two birds with one stone, and with that thought you shock yourself with your own wantonness, given the circumstances. You are trying your best to be business-like about this, to be as clinical, as perfunctory, as his abrupt penetration of you.

It is hard sometimes to remember that.

You don't mean to be a bad girl.

The man is speeding up as the train is slowing down, timing his arrival to perfection, and you place your hand over his, over the hand that grasps your breast, and you squeeze.

It is the only contact you ever will make with him, skin-to-skin, apart of course from down there.

But then it is too late to think about any of that, because suddenly he shoves forward, his palm on your belly pulling you roughly onto him just as he thrusts upwards, hard, and you squeak involuntarily as the head of his cock bumps rudely against your cervix, his pelvis grinding hard against your buttocks, and then there is wet, and heat, spreading in fat, slow pulses inside you, far up inside you, and you are squeezing on him, your cunt on his cock, your hand on his hand, drawing it all from him.

A man on the other side of the carriage frowns over his newspaper at you, distracted from the financial pages by the noises you only now realise you have been making throughout, but which have abruptly reached a crescendo.

You think to explain yourself to him. To tell him why. There is a man coming inside you, right now, you want to say, right this instant, in lazy, warm clots of languid warmth rising into your belly as this newspaper reader stares at you, uncomprehending yet disapproving. He can't possibly understand what it is like, what it means. How can you be expected to stay quiet when there is a man coming inside you?

No words come. There are no words. So you simply stand for it, trapped between dick and disapproval, betwixt cum and condemnation, heat rising in your cheeks.

Of course you know it's considered bad form to make too much fuss, but most of the other commuters don't seem annoyed that much. On the contrary, some seem quite pleased with the show they have just witnessed. Perhaps they are envious, of the man who got to you before they did. Perhaps a few are even envious of you, though you quickly bury that notion, in case it leads you to other, even less appropriate thoughts.

But the show is over, and as the train comes to a halt the man's softening cock slips from your body as smoothly as it entered.

And then it is gone.

The faint whisper of a sigh on the refractory air is the only sign it was ever there.

The hand on your breast slips from beneath yours.

The man behind you taps a final few drops of his release onto your bare skin, wiping the slackening head of his cock in the tight cleft of your buttocks. Then he pats your bare bottom, almost proprietorially, in the manner of a doctor who has just administered a necessary but perhaps slightly uncomfortable injection to a nervous patient.

Blood rushes in your ears as you try to control your breathing. Glancing down, you see a hand pluck one of the pink flowers from your breast. Through blurred eyes you watch masculine fingers crush the delicate crepe petals into a tight ball and then drop them on the dirt-strewn floor.

You remember to mumble a brief thank-you as you tug the hem of your dress back down over the present the man has left you.

You only ever saw his hands.

That man may have got off but you still have a way to go yet.

You leave the train at your usual stop.

As you funnel towards the exit, you catch a brief sight of the redhead.

Only one flower still remains on her lapel now. Her day's duty is all but done, it seems.

You still have a job to go to, however.

The up escalator is broken, so you are obliged to take the stairs.

And the stares.

Two hundred steep steps, with the people behind you openly looking up your dress.

You want to curl up with embarrassment. But somehow you keep walking, somehow you brazen it out.

It is impossible to remain composed.

The repetitive motion. The jolt of each step. The seep of sticky ooze the man left between your buttocks, working its way downwards with the motion of your cheeks. The even bigger glob of it he left inside your body, barely held in check by the embarrassed clenching of your muscles. And then there is your own mess. You squeeze tight to try to hold back the flow but before you are even halfway up the long flight of steps you feel it start to sputter forth.

And, once it has started, you can't turn it off.

The more you try to hold it back, the more you feel it. The more you feel it, the harder it gets to hold it back. Soon you are smeared, from the crown of your cunt to the base of your spine, in a silky bath of wanton wetness freely flowing down to slick your inner thighs.

And all the time people are watching, seeing, and that only makes it worse.

You have been climbing forever, in an endless furrow between brushed-steel walls, the faint suggestion of your reflection in the metal too vague to show the dishonesty of your seemingly-calm exterior.

By the time you reach the top step your nether lips are puffy, bulging, inflamed. And very, very soaked. In a way you still have three flowers, two pinned to your breast above and one pinning you below, its slow throb pushing upwards into you. That flower beneath you is slowly coming to full bloom, deepening to a rich pink, dew bright on the petals.

It is not even eight in the morning. What you are going to be like by the end of the day, you cannot say.