Free Trapper and Emmeline by Lindsey Flinch Bedder Page A

usual y I liked to say it to her. But this time she was missing the point.
    I had to get through to her.
    “Emmy, how can I say this without sounding dumb? You used to be a sirloin steak, but our sex-rules are making you into a Big Mac. You used to be a special meal, but now you’re a value meal that every poor slob can eat.”
    “It’s not possible to say that without sounding dumb,” she said.
    “What if I used an English accent?”
    We were whispering, heads side by side. I don't think Emmeline and I had ever been this serious together. This was the sex talk we needed as our games expanded. This was the check-in where we made sure we were both having fun and doing what we wanted.
    She said, “Let me prove it to you, Trap.”
    “Prove that I'm not corrupting you? How?”
    “Let me show you how I first learned to masturbate.”
    Did she even have to ask?
    “I’m in! Let’s go.”

    Emmeline led me into the subway. We took the local towards Queens, the first train she usual y took to get home. She often transferred to the express at Penn Station. I was curious about where she was leading us, and I didn’t care that I would have a long trip back to the city.
    Emmeline, on the other hand, was jumpy.
    “Trapper, just remember that I’m a nice girl, okay?”
    “Check.”
    “Remember that you’re a regular guy, and you put girls on pedestals.”
    “Okay.” I was growing slightly concerned.
    “But girls are human, not statues.” She watched my face closely to make sure I was listening. “I commute between Manhattan and Queens every day. Let me show you something I do. Then you can tel me if I'm being corrupted by you.”
    “What is it that you do?”
    She bit her lip and didn’t answer.

    As the subway car moved from station to station, it fil ed with tired, beaten commuters. Emmeline moved apart from me and I watched from a distance. She was the wel -put-together exception in the car, the pretty girl with the wide, anxious smile. She had a glowing complexion, a magnificent and shapely physique, and the sure body movements of an athlete.
    The translucent summer smock that shimmered around her torso covered some of that amazing body, at least symbolical y.
    The dress was no problem for her—men who have hot girlfriends know what I mean. Ask any woman with a slamming body to wear something sexy. They don’t mind, they don’t even think it’s special. Clothes that would be of questionable taste on average women have an ideal showcase with women like Emmeline. Even the most risqué outfits looked more right, and fit appropriately into more social situations, when the body underneath was equal to the garment.
    Emmeline was hot, no two ways about it. I had learned that she regularly didn’t give a damn what people thought about her dresses, because, here it comes, she was hot. It was a big mind-fuck puzzle that I sometimes chewed on: hotness is both the cause and result of being hot.
    I noticed Emmeline moving further away. I started to fol ow her but she shook her head. Her little dress swished over her ass. Some of the commuters turned to watch her go.
    She prowled to the end of the subway car, then turned back. She was the only interesting person in the car. Her legs looked so bare under that skirt! Her chest was scarcely covered by the low, square décol etage. The curves of her breasts were exposed to the longing gazes of the men she passed. So much skin! The men in the subway car noticed her, but pretended not to notice. They speared her through slit eyes, with their heads turned away.
    Emmeline stopped by a row of seats where a middle-aged man sat. His shoulder stuck into the aisle. She turned toward the man. She didn’t look at him. Her hip brushed his shoulder.
    He didn’t move.
    The movement of the train through the tunnel bumped her pelvis against his shoulder. Her hip brushed him again, and then the inside of her hip. She swayed with the subway car and it al looked innocent.
    It