© Mike Kimera 2000 All right reserved. Do not reproduce without permission firstname.lastname@example.org
Summer on the subway. People packed too close to fall over. Each person in their little envelope of private space, avoiding eye contact, shutting down their sense of smell, letting their minds take them somewhere-else.
I hang from an overhead bar, swaying like seaweed in the tidal flow. My body is stretched and loose at the same time. I close my eyes and track the progress of a bead of sweat down my spine. Bodies press against me on all sides, moving to the rhythmic song of the train.
At the next stop, as bodies flow on to the platform, I am buffeted and twisted in the eddies of the crowd and come to rest against the opposite door. I place my forehead against the glass and feel the rumble of the track move through me.
A body moves against mine then moves away. I am certain the body is male and that the contact was deliberate. I stay looking ahead, tense now, waiting. A finger, on my hip, large, strong, sliding and then gone. I discover I have been holding my breath. I wait. Two fingers: firm, insistent, stroking. Brief but purposeful. My personal sonar senses a large presence behind me, very close, walling me off from the crowd, a coral reef for my lagoon.
At the next touch I place my hand over the fingers, trapping them on my hip. They pause. My pulse races. I tense my body but don’t turn my head. I curl my moist palm around the fingers. Slowly, steadily, they push in and out of the hollow I create.
As the train sways I stay still. His body moves against mine and does not move away. A long hard shape pushes into my buttock. I press my shoulders against his chest, making my back into an S. One arm holds the rail above my head, the other clasps the invasive fingers. My eyes are closed, my lips slightly parted, my legs open just enough so that they don’t touch at any point along their length. I can smell my own sex through the thin material of my summer dress.
His breath is on my neck. I lick my lips. Did I sigh or did I only wish it deeply? The fingers vanish. The pressure on my arse eases. The breath on my neck is still there. My shoulders are still on his chest. I think I hear a zipper but the noise is drowned in the opening of doors as people ebb out of the train.
The sticky wetness of his cock in my palm shocks me. Reflexively I grip him. Thick, uncut, hot. How avidly my hand maps the contours of this new but familiar presence. We are both completely still. The train moves forward and he slides through my palm, foreskin slipping back, releasing the salt-musk smell of male sex. My thumb decides to rub along the exposed tip, rewarding me with an immediate hardening of this fascinating flesh.
As if in answer, my neck prickles to the darting touch of a tongue. I melt as my ear, my whole ear, is engulfed in strong demanding lips. My sex is crying with joy. My mind is locked away, pacing its cell muttering “This isn’t me”. I ignore it and listen only to the song of my body. My hand keeps time with the beat of my desire, stroking, squeezing, provoking. Time has slowed and space has stretched as sensation etches strong deep lines in my memory.
My legs have come together from sheer need. I feel my arse tighten against him. His cock, or my hand, I can’t tell which, I control neither, moves faster.
A hand, large, long-fingered, strong, slides up and over my hip then down into the moist shallows of my panties. My head pushes back. My hand strangles the neck of the cock. My cunt lips suckle the fingers, pulling them in, drowning them in juices, closing behind them to block off retreat.
Time accelerates. I thrust and stroke and squeeze and sweat. Blood roars in my ears. Cum splashes on to my hips. “FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK” lashes out from my upturned head.
I subside into silence, beached against the door. The train stops. My heartbeat slows. Doors open and close. My mind returns. Behind me is only air and the stares of envious strangers.