I admit it: I’m a voyeur. Oh, not that kind. Not the
hiding-in-the-dark-peeping-through-windows kind. I don’t want to work
that hard. Not even the
paying-through-the-nose-to-see-some-coke-whore-suck-another-guy’s-hose
kind. Way, way too public. Just your garden variety kind who’s too
timid to call and get the Playboy Channel on my cable — they’d have a
record of it! — let alone pay-per-view movie sex.
So instead I surf the regular cable channels looking for women to
ogle. The newsbabes on Fox, for example. Is it crucial to the unbiased
presentation of all points of view (as long as they’re right) that
women dye their hair blonde, wear 2-inch strappy heels, dark hose and
tight miniskirts, and sit with their legs crossed on an open set?
Across the nation I bet thousands of guys like me are leaning way over
in our Lazyboys like hormonal teen guys with a sexy new student
teacher, trying to look up that skirt.
Yes, I’m a couch voyeur. I won’t go out of my way to peep, but I’ll
take any anonymous opportunity that presents itself.
I’m not proud of this. I’d certainly never admit it to anyone. But I
bet there are a lot of guys like me out there. We’re the guys who knew
exactly what the Internet was made for: verbal voyeurism, just like
this. Sharing dirty pictures. Sneaking a few jerky seconds of jumpy
video. No more late-night trips to the porn store with our carefully
hoarded stash of untraceable cash from the ATM. No more fake names for
mail orders, paid for with anonymous money orders, hoping the mailman
would just drop off the package at our address without worrying that
there was no John Smith on the doorbell.
But the Net wasn’t the start of couch voyeurs. Not even cable. We were
always here, always finding our scared, secret ways to spy on the
flesh we dared not touch.
Some chose the fleeting vantage point of a moving vehicle. Have you
never used the rushed invisibility of your driver’s seat to scope out
a delicious pair of legs or to gaze longingly with lust in your loins
at some lubricious lips?
My biggest weakness is being alone in a crowd. At the theater I prefer
the balcony, a few rows from the front. Close enough to peer down the
tops of the society women who wear their finery in the main floor’s
front row (thanks to binoculars these days; I’m not as young as I used
to be), but far enough back to also have before me a few rows of the
tight tops and tanned legs of the young lovelies who can only afford
the cheap seats.
I will take advantage of any public vantage point, as long as I’m
reasonably certain I can get away with it. That’s not the only reason
I take the subway to work every day, but I must admit I very much
appreciate that particular delight of big-city life.
It’s a 25- or 30-minute ride in from my boring suburb even at the best
of times. Factor in all the delays of rush hour (a misnomer when you
think about it, isn’t it?) and you’re clipping close to an hour out of
your life. Quite an argument for telecommuting, I guess, but I’ll take
the stolen sight of real flesh over a screen full of titillating
pixels any day.
My stop is near the end of the line, which makes for a long ride but
usually assures me a seat. The big crush of passengers begins just two
stations down, where a dozen bus routes disgorge their loads.
That’s where the watching gets good. Businesswomen in their perfectly
fitted suits, with the jackets that disappointingly cover up their
tight behinds. But, more than making up for that, those suits come
with skirts cut above the knee and sensual thigh-high slits that wink
open as the train lurches, exposing a tantalizingly few extra inches
of silky smooth stocking, sometimes even opening wide enough to
display the merest hint of that sweet zone where the shimmery
translucence of the hose gives way to the dark, opaque secrets of the
panty. And when the train lurches again and closes the curtain on that
mystery, you can follow the curve of leg and ankle to the curiously
erotic tingle of a softly shiny pair of stiletto pumps. Why does the
sight of their dangerously spiky height provoke the same thrill as the
rounded arc of a glimpsed thigh? More important, what man-hating
fashion cop let the first woman get away with wearing sneakers over
hose? What warped logic says that a woman needs her heels at the
office, so she can be taken seriously as she teeters and sways from
boardroom to office, but can flatten out those attractive curves and
punctuate them with shapeless white lumps when she strolls through the
real world? If it’s all about comfort, why don’t you see women
stripping off their hose on the way home on a hot day? Now, that would
be great for us couch voyeurs.
Instead, when our daydreams are interrupted by the deflating vision of
a set of lovely legs ending in the awkwardness of a pair of Nikes, we
move on.
On, perhaps, to the scattered flashes of flesh. The shallow, downy
furrow of a young mother’s back, slipping into view between T-shirt
and lacy panty elastic as her jeans gap open when she bends down to
shush her over-excited son. The glistening ebony skin and impossibly
darker tunnel of a belly button exposed when the store clerk holding
her law-school text in one hand reaches up with the other to grasp the
railing overhead as we bang around a bend. The shadowy promise of
cleavage above the top, undone button of the one-size-too-tight pink
silk blouse of the matron across the aisle riding downtown to shop for
more clothes that fit the woman she once was and refuses to believe
she never will be again. The elegant line of the long neck and the
achingly soft shoulders only fleetingly seen as the cascade of
straight black hair swings to and fro on the olive-skinned beauty who
alights far too soon. The audaciously, outrageously erect nipples
poking through the stretchy tube top of the slack-jawed night-shift
worker out for a day on the town, hoping her barely hidden assets will
distract some eligible wallet from the tired lines and pockmarked
cheeks above that no amount of makeup can fully conceal, no matter
what those ads in Cosmo say. The much more carefully shadowed
fluttering lids guarding the blue eyes that go deep into the soul of
the otherwise icy secretary in the prim sky-blue, eye-blue outfit so
properly pressed that it seems more like a suit of armor, the eyes you
only dare look at sideways, wishing you could slip on your darkest
sunglasses so you could stare straight but unseen into their depths.
The full red lips, gleaming wet in the harsh fluorescent lights, on
the smooth-skinned teen directly in front of you as you perch on the
sideways bench, arms clenched to your chest to avoid too much contact
with the newspaper-flapping banker on your left or the old lady on
your right who keeps making little popping noises as she claps her
gums together to remind herself that she’s alive.
It used to shock me — yes, we’re back to me now — it used to shock
me, but now it only sadly surprises me each time a pair of those ripe
young lips issues forth with the rawest language. So I suppose I may
have grimaced for a second when the girl in front of my seat last
Friday finished a sentence that had begun while the train’s wheels
were still squealing to a halt. In the momentary silence after the
squeal of the wheels stopped and before the jabber of competing flows
of passengers began, her voice rang out with a delivery that would
have done a Broadway belter proud. “… bigger than that ugly slut
you’re seeing now, anyway!”
I couldn’t help the brief twist of my lips, and I couldn’t help a
brief glance at what I gathered was the area in question — a chest
that was worthy of pride, I thought. Prominent, but certainly not
extreme. Two hillocks, each more than a handful, jutting out with all
the exuberance of youth. Jutting out so much, in fact, that they were
pulling at the pearly button between them, spreading open a gap that
gave a glimpse of tanned skin and a diving vee of plain white cotton.
Even as I took in the view, the train started with a jolt and the
window of opportunity shut in her simple white blouse.
It happened so fast, and I had become so used to the anonymity of the
subway crush, that I didn’t realize at first that the next obscenities
I heard were directed at me. I never did quite figure out whether it
was my frown or my stolen glimpse that earned me my unwanted notice.
All I knew was that some barely bearded youth was leaning over two
shoppers and an accountant to enumerate my various four-lettered
deficiencies and make it clear that I had no dog in this fight.
Not, I hasten to say, that the girl in front of me was any kind of
dog. Aside from her healthy chest, I could only guess at her figure.
The rumpled blouse narrowed to what probably was a flat stomach, but
her waist was obscured by the bulging folds of the top of her blue
plaid pleated skirt. She surely had rolled it up to hike the hem
several inches above her knees, and her legs were worth putting on
display. But even the allure of such well-formed limbs could be
lessened when they ran into baggy white gym socks and a scuffed pair
of red and silver Sauconys. Still, her body had the limberness of
youth, and the shapelessness of her clothes did nothing to take away
from the beauty of her face.
Those lips had attracted my voyeur’s gaze — ripe, full pillows of
carmine against a lightly tanned canvas. She wore no makeup; the rose
in her high cheekbones was natural. A slender, slightly upturned nose
below huge green eyes curtained by long filigrees of eyelashes. An
unblemished face crowned by lustrous copper-brown hair pulled back
into a ponytail, exposing small, delicately architectured ears.
Or so I’d gathered from my furtive glances before my shield of
invisibility was shattered. Now I was staring down at my shoetips,
trying to shrink back into the orange plastic upholstery.
To no avail. The angry not-quite-boy-not-quite-man had drawn the
sidelong attention of all our immediate neighbors to my reddening
face, as I could see when I flicked my eyes up before pulling them
down quickly into a blur of embarrassed blinks.
If the kid’s verbal contretemps with the young woman was none of my
business, as he so loudly proclaimed and I so privately but
emphatically agreed, then why, I thought, was he so angry now that I
was trying to stay out of it?
He was — another hasty glance reminded me — what I classified as a
typical street punk. Tight jeans frayed above shiny thick Army boots,
wifebeater undershirt covered by sleeveless down vest stained here and
there with suspiciously crusty dark spots. And a sneer permanently
etched into the otherwise featureless blob that held up his
close-cropped blonde hair.
I didn’t need my glance to notice his most identifiable feature — a
voice that cut through the roar of the subway like a whooping siren.
That was the voice that was cursing me as I sat stone silent,
justifying my passivity by telling myself I was too dignified to waste
my breath on street trash.
It seemed that his harangue went on longer than Hamlet’s
slings-and-arrows moping, but it must have been much shorter, for we
were still hurtling between stations when someone came to my defense
and shut up the lout. It was the girl in front of me. “Get off his
fucking back,” she yelled through the din.
The kid with the sneer shouted back: “What, is he your fuckin’
boyfriend now? That the best you can do?”
“He’d be better than you, asshole. At least he probably has a job.”
The only answer from the lout was a snort.
My defender continued. “And he takes a bath more than once a month,
too, I bet.”
“Oh, Miss fucking Priss! Is that why you wouldn’t spread your legs for
me? Your goddamn nose wouldn’t let you? And I thought it was just
because you were a fucking frigid little shit.”
“It wasn’t because you stink. It’s because you’re fucking stupid!”
There was a bit of jostling as we got to another station and the tide
of passengers went in and out. The girl stayed in front of me, but the
kid with the sneer got pushed a little farther down the car. He just
yelled louder, enlarging the audience. “So I’m too stupid for you but
Retard Tommy wasn’t?”
The girl’s knees clamped around mine. I looked up and saw her eyes
flashing. “I told you he fucking raped me, you goddamn shit. And it’s
your goddamn fault because you were supposed to pick me up at
6-fucking-30! I wouldn’t even of been there if you hadn’t fucking
forgot!”
“What are you still so fucking upset about? I kicked his damn head in
for you, didn’t I? And I wasn’t that late. You said he’d only got his
cock in you, didn’t you? What’s the big deal one cock more or less?”
“I was a goddamn virgin, asshole!”
“Jesus, you are frigid! Sweet 18 and never been laid — except by a
retard!”
“Screw you! I just don’t want to let any old cock between my legs —
not like that skanky cunt you’re seeing now.”
“Fuck you, Jen! At least Terry knows what her cunt is for. And she
don’t look like a motherfucking fat-assed dog.”
“I ain’t no dog,” said the girl I now could identify as Jen. She spun
from side to side and ran her left hand slowly down her side and
around the sweeping curve of her buttock. “And there ain’t no fat on
this ass. It’s pretty damn good, ain’t it, mister?”
By now the train was so full that the people in the middle of each car
were trapped; they weren’t going anywhere for at least 45 minutes,
when we’d arrive at the main downtown stop and the train would vomit
us all out. The car had taken on that dank smell of sweat and Jimmy
Dean sausage that marked the morning run. The sneering kid was just a
face poking between two dark gray suits. The guy on my right had given
up trying to read his paper and was sitting stiffly, hands folded
across his chest. He jerked away from me every time a jolt knocked us
together. The old woman on my right was holding onto the metal armrest
on her right with both hands, as if she couldn’t get far enough away
from me. When the train is this packed, it’s like being in a padded
cage — only the pads are your fellow passengers. The closeness and
the body heat become lulling. Even the roar becomes a solid white
noise and the jolts fall into a rocking pattern. Your mind slows down
to that point just this side of sleep where your brain is still taking
in sensory data but it can’t be bothered to process it.
So, even though I was later able to sort out who said what, at the
time I just stared ahead blankly at a point approximately one inch
above the top of Jen’s skirt while she was saying “Hey, mister! Ain’t
my ass OK?”
The punk got my attention, though, when he let out a piercing bray.
“Hey, asshole,” he shouted. “The bitch asked you a question. Tell her
she’s a fat-assed whale, why don’t you?”
I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to look at her, either,
but I couldn’t keep myself from sneaking a glance upward. Her face was
drawn into a pout. I could have stood anything else, I think, but not
that pout. She was a woman but she still had the guileless wiles of a
stud.
“You look just fine,” I said. Softly, so I don’t think even she heard
me, but she smiled slightly as if she’d read my lips — or perhaps my
eyes.
The punk hadn’t heard me, though, and he shouted more abuse at Jen.
She traded insults with him again. I started to answer him myself, but
she caught my eye and shook her head slightly. I subsided. Or I tried
to, but when that jerk mentioned the rape again I couldn’t stop
myself. I don’t remember what I yelled. It couldn’t have been very
good; my vocabulary is broad enough to include all the basic
Anglo-Saxonisms and then some, but they don’t sound as effective when
the speaker shies at the start of each one like an English Derby horse
who’s afraid of hedges.
The punk ignored me and focused his bile on Jen. “Look at you,” he
spat. “You’re so ugly even your little faggot friend won’t say
different.”
“She’s very pretty,” I yelled back. He pretended not to hear. “She’s
pretty,” I repeated.
“Hey, Jen, the faggot says you got a pretty fat ass and a pretty ugly
face,” the kid translated. He had shoved the two suits in front of him
as far apart as possible, given the cramped conditions, and bent
forward so his sneer seemed to loom before me.
Just then the train must have slowed to wait out one of the usual
delays, because my next shout rang out clearly: “I said she’s
beautiful, you pock-faced piss-ant!”
“Beautiful? What, her?”
“Yeah, me,” Jen said with a smirk. “The gent thinks I’m beautiful!”
She gave me a wide smile, showing off a row of perfect white teeth.
“He wouldn’t say that if he saw the rest of your body,” the punk
called back. “Like those bags you call tits.”
“Nothing wrong with my tits, is there, mister?” Jen pulled her blouse
open three buttons and leaned forward, giving me a heavenly view of
her breasts straining against the confines of her bra.
I licked my lips nervously. Jen’s gorgeous globes loomed before me.
“They’re lovely,” I said hoarsely. I cleared my throat. “Best I’ve
ever seen.”
The train screeched to a halt, making Jen release her blouse and lean
back as she grabbed for support, and propelling the punk almost into
my lap before the other passengers regained their footing and he was
squeezed back. It was too late; he’d already had an eyeful. “My god,
Jen, you gave him a fucking woody! What’d you do, shove a gerbil up
his ass?”
I looked up at Jen in embarrassment, only to see her lick her lips
slowly and sensuously.
Let me make this very clear: I’m no stallion. I guess I’d call myself
average, though from what you read these days you’d think average was
12 inches instead of my much-more-modest allotment. But at that moment
my rod was about as hard as I’ve ever known it, tenting up my pants
very noticeably. And, I realized only then, aching to be released. Jen
had done that to me with just a peek at her tits.
Her knees squeezed mine as she twisted her head toward the punk.
“Maybe the gent just appreciates a good-looking woman, you ever think
of that? Maybe that’s the way real men react to me.”
“Oh, yeah,” the punk said. “I think I remember you actually got me
hard once. I must’ve been drunk at the time.”
“Oh, was that a hard-on?” Jen showed her teeth again. “I thought you
just had a wart or something.”
That one hit home and the punk could only stammer for a few seconds
before he essayed some weak rejoinder that got lost in the rumble of
the train and the barely stifled laughter of the people around us.
The sneer wiped off his beet-red face, the kid looked like a gargoyle
as he poked a little forward. “I’m damn glad I never fucked you, you
stupid bitch! You probably stick your Coke can up your crotch so’s
you always have a cold one with you!”
Instead of saying a word in reply, Jen just hitched her left leg onto
the seat by my knee and stuck her hand underneath her plaid skirt. She
fumbled around for a second or two, then switched legs and fumbled
some more, all the while staring me right in the eyes.
The next thing I saw was a blur of white flying across the train car
and landing smack on the punk’s face. ‘Take a sniff of those,
asshole,” Jen shouted. “It ain’t cold down there now!”
And then her hand was on my crotch, rubbing up and down. Even through
my pants and a pair of underwear I could feel her gentle pressure and,
though I couldn’t believe it, my cock got even harder. Jen slid her
hand back up to my waist and slowly unzipped me. By now the punk had
yanked the panties off his face and was spluttering incoherently.
And then time slowed down. Every second lasted a minute. The roar of
the train faded out of my head.
Jen, this 16-year-old schoolgirl, reached up and clenched the rail
overhead with both hands, making her ripe breasts stand out even more.
Her nipples were so erect they poked noticeably against her blouse,
even with the constraint of her bra.
Holding onto the bar above, she slid her knees onto the bench on
either side of me, squashing the man and woman against the armrests
at either end as she slipped into squatting position facing me. I felt
her hot, insistent pressure along my legs and against my chest, where
her nipples prodded me. She was so tightly against me that I couldn’t
tell whether the thumping I felt was her heart or mine.
Reaching under the skirt that now fell softly over my lap as well as
hers, she wedged between her cunt and my crotch and freed my cock from
confinement.
Draped as we were by Jen’s skirt, no one could see what she was doing.
But it couldn’t have been tough to guess. Especially after she began
to give a running commentary, presumably for her ex-boyfriend’s
benefit.
“He’s got a big one,” she yodeled as she drew my cock from its cloth
straitjacket and gave it blessed relief. “It feels like a fucking
baseball bat, long and goddamn hard!” She was stroking it gently. A
tremor ran through my whole body when her fingertips brushed the
supersensitive rim of my rod’s helmet. Her thumb rubbed the very tip
and a drop or two of precum oozed out. She milked me like a prize
heifer, squeezing my turgid member in a finger-by-finger ripple until
she’d nursed out enough liquid to lubricate her hand as it slid up and
down my rod. Each time her fist reached bottom and rested on my balls,
the tip of my cock touched a hot wetness I knew was her eagerly
waiting cunt. But she was taking it slow, giving her more time to tell
the punk — and everyone else in earshot — just what she was going to
do to me.
It sounded like a good plan to me. I can’t say all my inhibitions had
melted away — my arms were still held tight to my sides, my hands
folded across my stomach, her taut belly sweating against them. But I
had stopped caring about the other people on the crowded train car,
stopped worrying about embarrassment or the possible consequences. I
just lived in the delicious moment.
And the moments got more and more delicious. Even as the punk was
screeching louder than the brakes, “You’re not gonna do it! You’re not
gonna do it,” Jen had firmly grasped my cock by the root and was
rubbing the head slowly back and forth across her slick slit. “I’m
gonna,” she grunted, staring past me now.
She stopped talking then and concentrated on what she was doing. I
could feel more and more of her juices flowing out and coating my
cock, dripping down like wax down a candlestick. With each pass up or
down her slit, the warm wet walls yielded some more. The gentle
friction had my nerve endings on fire, but her grip on my rod was too
firm for me to do anything but sit back and let her do the driving.
At last she held my cock still and upright, the tip pointed straight
to heaven. I felt her weight begin to ease onto me and, slow as a
sigh, gentle as a whisper, her pussy lips parted for me. She slipped
her hand out from under us and sank onto me, a slow, slow passage into
her all-embracing tunnel, ripples of awed delight coursing through my
cock. Into her deeper and yet deeper, a smooth glide. An eternity
later I could feel her silky asscheeks resting on my balls. I was in
her, in this sexy teen queen, all the way. Her lovely body slumped
against mine. Her breath felt like a flame on my neck.
For a few blissful seconds we stayed just like that, with me buried
far inside her velvet vise. Then my cock twitched ever so slightly,
apparently of its own volition. I never knew my dick had a will of its
own. But it twitched, and Jen must have taken it as a signal. Or her
own body was issuing orders. For whatever wonderful reason, she began
to move. Slowly at first but quickly building speed flying up and
racing down my pole bouncing like a tike on a pogo stick faster faster
faster still until I had to grab her waist with both hands and squeeze
soft soft so she would slow down slow and easy does it and my brain
could catch up with the surging flood of sensations rushing up from my
dick.
Jen’s eyes were open wide when she brought her head forward. Her
nostrils flared with each breath. Her glossy red lips formed an
erotic O. She looked right at me but I don’t think she saw me.
My button-down shirt was already sticking to my back with sweat. I was
breathing hard, and with every expansion of my chest I felt the
exquisite double pressure points of her tits. But mostly I felt every
nerve cell in my cock on full alert.
We were rutting in rhythm now, barely moving, savoring each second.
Breaking into our idyllic reverie came the bray of Jen’s erstwhile
boyfriend. “You’re faking it, you bitch,” he was shouting over the
rumble of the train.
Without a word, Jen reached back and lifted up the back of her skirt,
pulling the hem to her shoulders. I felt a breeze on my balls. I could
imagine what the punk’s view was as he shoved through the packed crowd
for a closer look. My teenage temptress rose so slowly now she didn’t
seem to be moving at all. Higher and higher until the tip of my cock
was just barely nestled in her wet folds. Then down, my rod bending
ever so slightly before her gates opened and I slipped inside. And all
over again.
“Holy fucking shit,” the punk said before the crowd swallowed him up.
I never saw him again.
I didn’t see anything for a few seconds, anyway. Just a stroke or two
after Jen let her skirt fall back down over our junction, a boiling
rose inside me. My eyes shut and a gusher of hot cum exploded out of
me.
I grunted; I groaned. All the air was let out of me. I hadn’t even
realized my legs had been tensed, gripping the edge of the plastic
bench with my heels perched on a reinforcing steel panel that ran
underneath, until all my muscles let go at once and my toes skidded
back onto the rubber floor. My hands fell from the girl’s sides. I was
spent.
But she evidently wasn’t. Jen kept bouncing on me, oblivious to my
exhaustion or my ejaculation, physical or verbal. In very little time
her continued vaginal clamp on my cock crossed the threshold to
something resembling pain; the hypersensitized helmet of my dick
screamed in my head. “Oh, God, stop,” I begged, but she still bounced.
“Please, please,” I whimpered, but she still slithered up and down my
slightly shriveled member. “No more,” I started to gasp, but I could
no longer even choke out the words. I pressed back against the seat,
feeling the sweat. My head rolled against the cool glass. It was a
delicate balance of agony and ecstasy that I felt in my loins.
Jen still rocked and rolled above me. Gradually my nerve endings
adjusted — or perhaps just wore out — as my dick softened. But Jen
kept going and soon her bouncing was supplemented by moans, louder and
louder, that morphed into shouts: “Yes, yes, yes! Come with me!
Closer, closer …”
I didn’t know what was going on until she looked at me and winked.
Apparently we were still putting on a show for the punk. He was buried
in the crowd now, or, for all I knew, had slunk off the car entirely.
But Jen had her back to the crowd, and our gyrations had so grown so
heated that the windows behind me were fogged up; no reflections for
her to see. So she didn’t know her tormentor was gone as she faked her
way through an ear-shattering orgasm.
“Yeah, baby. Just like that, baby. Fill me up, lover. Uh-huh, uh-huh,
uh, uhhhhhh!”
Just as she was bending her head back and letting loose with her
loudest groan, an amazing thing happened.
I got hard.
Again.
My encore tumescence caught the girl off-guard, too. Her groan cut off
halfway through and faded into a purr.
She rested her chin on my left shoulder and whispered into my ear.
“Ooooh, lover. Where did that come from?” My cock twitched in answer
and we resumed our sexual rhythm. This time I set the pace, her waist
firmly in my grasp, my ass bouncing off the seat on every upthrust.
Jen nuzzled into my neck and sent her tongue snaking into my ear. I
was in orbit.
We had been stroking in synch for only a minute or two when Jen began
to moan again. I thought she was overdoing the histrionics, but her
pussy began clamping tighter on my rod in ripples of motion. “Oh, yes,
lover,” she breathed in my ear. “This one’s for real! Come on, baby,
just a little bit more. I’m almost there. Faster! Yes, that’s it! Bury
that monster in me! Come on, come on, come …” The sounds that
followed I can’t even begin to transliterate. They were primal and raw
and most of all loud. She ran her hands up and down my chest, tugging
my shirt out of my slacks. Each time she slid down my pole now, she
did it with a shimmy that made me want to drill her deeper and deeper.
Then her entire body shook, shiver-stop, shiver-stop, shiver-stop. She
collapsed against me and covered my face with wet kisses before
plunging her hot tongue into my mouth with a moan.
I kissed her back and our tongues wrestled, our mouths wide open and
pressed together. My hands drifted up to her neck, then to the sides
of her face as I cupped her head and drew her tight to me.
We embraced like that for some time, but I hadn’t come this time and
my insistent cock soon began to buck up into the slick tunnel it had
never left. Jen responded.
Soon we were fucking like bunnies again, lost to our lust. Jen yanked
my shirt open; I did the same to her blouse. She slid her hands across
my sweat-slick chest; I roamed across her flat stomach. She reached
behind and undid her bra, unleashing two perfectly shaped globes as
she peeled her soaked blouse off and flung it aside. She pressed her
tits into me as we continued to pump together.
As Jen rolled her upper body against me, swirling her erect nipples on
my chest, I blurrily took note of the scene around us.
We were still surrounded, of course. There was nowhere for them to go.
The space where Jen had stood was now full, leaving no more trace of
her presence than a pond leaves when a stone’s plunked in. But
everyone in the row of standees directly in front of us had done an
about-face and was turned away from us (not that I didn’t catch one or
two of them peeking). The guy on my left had picked up his paper again
and was using it to shield his view. The old woman on the right had
her own shield — Jen’s discarded blouse was draped over her. I
wondered why the woman hadn’t removed it. Then I worried. Was she
dead? A stentorian snore reassured me.
I swung my attention back to the sex kitten sitting on top of me. She
grabbed my hands and plopped them on her tits. I’d been right in my
earlier estimate: more than a handful each. I gave them both a
squeeze: firm but giving. I palmed them, rolling over the nipples. I
traced their outlines on her chest, then ran a single finger on each
hand from shoulder to nipple, around the brown circle, down the bottom
side. My tongue retraced each route as Jen leaned back and presented
her tits on the table of her torso. Each ripe nipple went into my
mouth, one by one and back again. And all the while my rod plunged in
and out of her.
We kissed, we nuzzled, and most of all we fucked. Oh, how we fucked.
Lights flew past and I imagined the astonished looks of the people in
the stations.
The girl on my lap and I adjusted our pace to the train: up and hold
and down and hold, relishing every millimeter, as the train slowed
into a station. Then stopped, lips locks, tongues entangled, arms
pulling the other closer, as a few passengers alit and dozens more on
the platform struggled to squeeze aboard. And then she rose again, her
pussy lips flaring around my stiff rod, leaving a coating of her
juices behind. Up, up, ’til just the tip was in her folds. Then down,
just a bit faster as the train picks up speed leaving the station.
Down and the juices pour over my balls and soak into my already sodden
pants. Up now and down faster skin slipping on sweaty skins rivulets
running in my eyes and mouth salty sweet up and down faster yet
rocking with the rails eyes closed to shut out everything else but up
and down up and down no finesse now just raw hard sex up and down
bench creaking under the assault up and down breath punching its way
out of my lungs up and down close now closer but not yet up and down
tits jiggling against me up and down up and down up-and-down upanddown
upanddownupanddownupanddown.
And slowing again into the next station only to start all over again.
The train rolled through its dark tunnels and I drove into mine, hand
in glove, no thoughts left in my brain, just instincts and those only
of sex.
At last we approached the end — downtown, end of the line. Out of
breath, we broke rhythm with the train, now straight slow thrusts, the
head of my dick staying firmly oh so firmly in her tight cunt. And
then I felt it and began to grunt oh please yes don’t stop let it be
now. And Jen gave her last effort plunging hard onto me and up
screaming sighing shouting whispering voice hoarse “Yes, faster, now,
do it, do it, nnnyes.” My cock grew longer, thicker, harder, oh
marvelous miracle, and fire was in my soul and it poured forth. And
her body shook as an epileptic shakes, huge shuddering convulsions,
abrupt paralytic halts, roaring sighing “Lover, lover, sweet lord,
fill me up, just like that, oh, oh, yessss,” sagging at last as one
final spurt of cum boils out of me into her overflowing vessel.
And so it ended. The girl I never knew snatched back her blouse,
awakening the old woman, and disappeared into the crowd as the doors
opened at the last stop. I scrambled to my feet but too late.
I used the pay phone in the station to call in sick to work.
For the next three days I rode the subway, swimming through the
throngs in search of Jen. I never found her. Don’t know what I would
have said or done if I had.
Finally the stares of the riders who remembered me drove me out.
I take the bus now.
