Charles Richards: The hot swappers

Alice Martin's crotch was wet. Partially due to the excitement that any eighteen-year-old girl would feel making her first trip into a foreign country, and partially because she had just seen an older-looking man who had given her such a searching look that the goose bumps had broken out all over her young body.

Breathing hard, she hurried down the platform in the wake of the young Mexican pushing the handcart carrying her three suitcases. Looking down the length of the train, she could see the bright splash of red that marked the diesel engine standing patiently at the head of the long line of cars like a mother duck about to waddle down the track. Alice could hear the powerful throbbing hum of the engine's motor. The silent vibrations struck her flesh, increasing the sense of excitement and desire that she was experiencing. Her breasts, hanging loosely within the slings of her slackly fastened bra, firmed and started to swell slightly, the nipples becoming engorged with blood and poking at the thin material covering the puffy brown tips. She was turned on hot with desire and squirming with excited anticipation.

Quickly glancing at the ticket which she held clutched tightly in her hand, Alice's eyes sought, and then found the numbers painted in a dull gold on.the side of the dark olive-drab coaches. Ahead of her, the young Mexican boy, who couldn't have been a day more than fourteen, also looked up at the numbers as he wheeled the cart with the suitcases down the platform.

Alice saw him stop before one of the dark slits marking the staired entrance to one of the large Pullman cars, lift the bags from the handcart, and deposit them unceremoniously at the top of the three high steps leading into the coach. He stood there, patiently waiting for Alice to close the gap between them. As she approached, she fumbled in her large leather purse and extracted a crumpled dollar bill, smoothing it, and then handing it to the boy. He looked at the bill and then at Alice. She didn't take the hint, but moved toward the bottom step. He shrugged his shoulders and then shuffled quickly down the platform, looking for another American customer.

She almost heard the wet squish at the crotch of her thin panties when she took the first long step up into the coach, but hesitated only for a moment, and then clambered quickly into the darker confines of the car which was to be her home for the next two nights.

Leaning over, her short dress rising high along the backs of her full rounded thighs, Alice picked up two of the bulky heavy suitcases, hefted them and lurched forward into the companionway, making her way down the aisle, looking at the numbers on the doors of the long car. She left her one remaining suitcase sitting at the top of the coach's stairway.

Struggling with the heavy bags, Alice made her way down the narrow corridor until she came to the door with a number corresponding to the one which was written in titled letters on the face of her ticket. Since the door was standing ajar, she turned and pushed her way into the tiny compartment, banging her hip hard against the doorjamb as she tried to wrestle the heavy suitcases through the small opening. Dropping them to the floor, Alice unashamedly rubbed her smarting hip with her hand, trying all the while to figure out where to store her bags. She was wondering if she could safely change her wet panties.

"Where do you want this?" a deep male voice said behind her.

Jolting forward as if she had been poked in the rump with a cattle prod, Alice whirled around to face the voice.

He was standing in the narrow doorway, with her suitcase gripped tightly in both hands, the strain of the heavy weight showing clearly on his forehead. It was the same man who had looked at her body like it was some kind of hanging meat display, sensuously displayed for all to see and enjoy. It had been that look, and the excitement of finally being on her way to art school in the little town of San Mateo, that had started her female juices running from the unsullied groove between her thighs, wetting her silky panties and making her uncomfortably conscious of the fact that at eighteen she was still technically a virgin.

"Well, I don't want to hold this damned thing all day," he said irritably, looking around the small narrow compartment for a place to put the burden that he held in his hands.

"Oh, right there will be fine," Alice finally managed to stammer, indicating one of the two seats in the compartment. "Thank you so much for carrying it down, it was very kind of you."

Throwing the suitcase on the seat, he then looked up and down the girl's young lush body. "Where you headed?"

A new flood of bodily juices flowed from the tubes surrounding her loins and saturated the doubled material at her crotch. He was looking at her with that same penetrating look he had used on the platform to start her juices flowing so copiously. She wished he would stop it. He was looking right at her hips; right where the wet spot was between her young thighs. Then it hit her. She was still rubbing her rump with the palm of her hand; the man's sudden intrusion into the compartment had caused her mind to lose its normal retention of simple things as its whole focus was placed on the emergence of her sexual desire.

Dropping her hand and turning a slight shade of pink, she looked up into his well-tanned face. and said simply, "San Mateo." And then, as almost an afterthought, she added, "To go to the Instituto."

"Good school," he said, moving to stand directly in front of Alice. "You'll learn a lot if you make an effort."

"Do you know about the school?" she asked. "I live in San Mateo," he replied, rolling up the sleeves on the plain blue cotton work shirt that he wore almost like a uniform.

"What do you do there?" Alice wanted to know, impressed with the idea of meeting someone who actually lived in San Mateo.

"I paint," Fernando Ortega said simply. He didn't lie; he did paint, and, when he was younger, had been considered one of the rising young men in the art world, holding great promise. He was returning to his home in Mexico after a near-disastrous showing in the San Francisco gallery that handled his work. He had been depressed when he crossed the border and boarded the train. The gallery owner had told him frankly that his paintings had not developed, were the same as they had been for the past ten years. He was in a rut and he knew it. He'd sold only enough during the showing to last him another six months in Mexico even if he watched his budget. He might be forced to take that job that had been offered him to teach oils at the Instituto after all, although this was the last thing in the world he really wanted to do.

Alice looked at the older man with new eyes – a painter, a real honest to God artist. That was the thing she wanted more than anything in the world, to be an artist. She'd wanted to be an artist ever since she had been told she had some talent by a young art teacher at her small, Midwestern high school. She had wanted to do all the things she had read about artists doing. She was still technically a virgin, but she had made up her mind that this condition would be changed as soon as she met someone that she was interested in and who was an artist. Those were her only requirements and the man now standing in front of her met both of them. "Have you sold many paintings?" she wanted to know.

"Doing all right;" Fernando stretched the truth slightly, "just coming back from a one-man show in San Francisco." He had mentally undressed her, savoring the gently swinging mounds of her breasts as they pushed hard against the material of her dress; he noticed the strength of her calves, but could only guess at the curves of flesh that lay hidden beneath the billowed fullness of her dress. He guessed that Alice was on the chubby side and tried to hide it. That was all right with him; he liked his woman a little on the Rubenesque side anyway, and Alice looked like she had walked right out of one of the great master's fleshy paintings. "What's your name?" he asked.