I ride the subway each workday from Queens to Manhattan. It usually gets very crowded in the morning, with too many people jamming into the subway cars. It isn’t unusual for someone to brush up against my breasts or ass. Most of the time, I have to believe it is intentional. Sometimes they linger, sometimes they squeeze, sometimes they rub. There is no point getting angry. To be honest, I find it exciting, a complete stranger touching me in public! It is kind of like the heating-up you get in a dance club with men all over your mini while you look for your dream lover. Since I broke up with my boyfriend a couple of weeks ago, I’ve had fantasies of groping some guy, taking him somewhere, and fucking his brains out. I know I’d never have the nerve to do it, but a 25 year-old single girl like me needs her daydreams.
At the token booth that morning, a worker was handing out a flyer. It said that due to some emergency work, there would likely be delays today in the tunnel. It was possible that the train might be stopped for a half an hour, maybe more. We are sorry for the inconvenience. I paid my fare and went down to the platform to wait for the train. It was autumn, the sun was warm, and I was dressed for the mild weather. I wore a buttoned-front cashmere sweater, a flouncy skirt that stopped some inches above my knees, and strap open-toed heels. My ex-boyfriend had a thing for lacy underwear, so I always wore sexy plunge-bras, French panties that tie at my hips, and stockings with a garter belt to please him. After we broke up, I still wore these frilly things. They made me feel very feminine and playful-sexy, and the plunge bras give a little drama to a vee-neckline and some pearls.
On the platform, I waited for the train. Early on, friends told me never to make eye contact with anyone. If I had a cell phone I could pretend to talk to someone. The platform was much more crowded than last Monday, with the “usual” bumps and semi-collisions in the rush. It is a wonder that sensitive people aren’t entirely black and blue by the end of the workweek. The train came in; it was already crowded, but I was used to this, and got on. Somebody once told me that in Japan they have railroad employees in white gloves to stuff the passengers into the trains; I wonder how much groping and feeling goes on there? My ride is fifteen stops, and the run takes me about 45 minutes. The doors closed and I got myself into my “commuter mode”, hooked my arm around a pole, took out my book and began to read. For the first three or four stops things moved routinely. The train was jam-packed; people around me had their backs to me, all absorbed in their own little commuter worlds.
The train chugged along with the normal screeches, rumbles, and intermittent lighting. It was during one of the station stops that I noticed something resting lightly on my butt. Somebody’s hand was gently pressing against my skirt at the indent of my cheeks! I knew I should protest and make a scene, but I figured it was harmless, and after two weeks of celibacy, I was a little horny myself, so I welcomed some “sport” and smiled inwardly. Looking for something a little bit clandestine and exciting, I arched my back slightly and pushed my ass back into the hand, wiggling my butt, meanwhile keeping my nose in my book, signaling my awareness of – and consent to – these touches. It was all a game on the ride to work today.
The train began to move out with a rhythmic pump and sway, and the unknown hand moved over my skirted fanny as if familiar with me already. Time passed with a clickety-clack. Was the car warmer because of the crowding? It was soon very difficult to keep reading with this anonymous attention, and my knees were wavering. I had to struggle to raise my hand to brush a lock of errant hair from my eyes, meanwhile keeping hold of my pole, my shouldered purse, and paperback book. With a deep breath, I wiggled my ass again and took a half-step, bracing my legs a bit wider.
The train was so packed that nobody could board -or even move much. There was some cursing about rush hour crowds and courtesy, but I didn’t care. The hand roamed lower as the train pulled into the next station, down to the hem of my gauzy skirt, squeezing my under curves, testing the territory. I didn’t say a word. As the train pulled out, I felt the back of my skirt slithering ghostily upward against my satin panties, and wondered how far my phantom was going to go. I tried to twist, to move, to look over my shoulder, to no avail. I felt my moistening begin between my wide-braced legs as the hand slipped under my flyaway skirt and held my stockinged leg, shifting my stance further outward. I closed my book and was seeing nothing, unfocused, like a doomed mouse hypnotized by a cobra, self-consciously and nervously smoothing the sides of my skirt with a shaking right hand. I put my glasses in my purse, closing them carefully with my lips.
The questing hand rose to the lace-embroidered top of my stocking, the fingers tracing circles in my bare thigh, just below the curve of my behind, massaging the muscle. Oh, God it felt dreamy. The train came to a lurching stop again as somebody bumped my shoulders. The hand was back on my left cheek, this time under my skirt, fingers tracing the frilly band of my pantytops. I had to step to avoid falling, wondering if the fingers would creep further, gnawing my lip as my pulse raced and my vision blurred. A soft puff of cool air brushed my inner thighs. I felt like Marilyn Monroe in that movie, but there was somebody else in this picture.
While one hand roamed freely over my taut, round cheeks, another (his other? Who could tell?) reached for my free hand and took it behind my back. The grip pressed my hand over a muscled belly and down over a wide leather belt and some corduroys. The male organ was hardening like my bullet-tipped nipples. My unknown groper moved my captive hand up and down his prick, and then let go. I kept my hand on his organ, without conscious decision, blindly rubbing him. His other hand inched my panties down astride my hips, and I felt his fingers inside them. I muffled a yelp with my book, but jumped. On a crowded subway train, somebody I could not see and did not know was inside my panties with his hands wandering toward my sex, while I gave him the dance hall two-step! I was in a cloud of my perfume suddenly, and shuddered, staring dumbly at the backs of my fellow riders, dropping my book. As he squeezed my quaking moons, and tickled between them, his other hand snaked up under my sweater and around my torso. I wiggled my butt to move his warm palm back to my cheek, seeking the pleasure of that warm caress now wandering elsewhere.
My “Nile explorer” massaged my abdomen and navel with the most wonderful caresses and tickles, then crept lightly, teasingly upward towards my chest. The train began to chuff forward again -and everyone staggered- as one hand yanked the back of my panties further down and pushed two fingers firmly in between my cheeks while the other hand cupped my right lace-covered boob. With my left hand around the car rail, I was still able to press his wonderful hand to my chest; I am very proud of the firmness and shape of my breasts, and they require attention when I am aroused. He teased and kneaded my globes through my brassiere, causing them to become insistently, demandingly erect. My head was swimming, my pulse was pounding, and I made every effort to assist him. It felt as if I were conspiring with a robbery, I licked my lips, I was becoming aroused.
As he got bolder, so did I. I moved my hand up from his bulge, all the while keeping a neutral, no-nonsense commuter face to my front, and located his fly. I ran my lacquered nails up and down his zipper and pulled it daintily down, whistling tunelessly as I put my hand inside my molester’s pants. His shorts had that unfastened closure you see on cheap boxers and pyjamas, and I soon found his hot, throbbing organ, and ran my fingers and nails teasingly along his fuzzy underside and balls. It twitched to my touch, and his boa-constrictor grip on me tightened. I used my thumb to paint some of the wet from the tip, then my palm to smear it over the mushroom head and down its length. It seemed to grow and I could feel him move nearer. A hot kiss seared the back of my neck.
By this time, his left hand clutched my boobs, straining against the French lace, rising and falling with my increasingly heated breaths, and was massaging me with a warm, cupped palm. His right hand was all over my half-exposed butt. My sweater was inching up my left side with his arm -and now there was a finger in my behind! I tried to turn again to see if I could see my mauler-lover, or if anybody might catch a glimpse of our intimate conspiracy. The train sped on through the tunnels, light panels flashing and motors thundering. I swallowed with a suddenly-dry mouth, and moved my right leg back against his, stretching against the waistband of my restraining panties.
The hand left my upper torso and dropped to the baroque brass cincture at the waist of my skirt, and worked it free. The hand dove into the front of my skirt, now held up only by my widely-spread hips, and ran his fingers across my lower belly. I dropped my slippery grip on his cock to move my hand front and grab his wrist, holding him there. My left hand was idiotically trying to pull my sweater back down to my waist -and hold me upright. His penis was bluntly, blindly wandering the small of my back. My body poured into his grip as he rested his hand on the fleur-de-lys embroidery on the front of my panties and massaged down to my silk-covered entrance. I softly whimpered. The traveling hand curled around to the top of my half-masted panties and dipped inside. My knees sagged, spreading my legs wider. Fingers moved hypnotically through my pubic hair as they searched for my doorway, eventually entering me like a hungering snake following a gopher into its hole. A small exclamation escaped my lips, but the train noise was too loud for any to hear. I quivered, fighting to remain upright, and tried to move away from the probing hand to regain my composure, backing up against his hardness. I rubbed my ass up and down deliriously against his organ. Nobody noticed us.
He pulled his finger out of my sweating ass and tugged at my panties to work them further down around my hips. My body no longer obeyed my intellect and sought to readmit the probing digits. I was helpless against him. He soon located one of the satin ribbons which held my panties to my jello-quaking torso. As he continued to finger me in front, he pulled on the bow with the same firm, gentle tug his other hand had previously used on my nipples, finally undoing the fancy lacing. Losing all sense of place and propriety, I reached down, hiked up the side of my skirt, and loosed the second bow. I stared rigidly ahead with my shoulders set and back arched, as the untied fancies slipped away from underneath me. I felt the draft of the cool morning against my moist, naked skin. The hand on my pubis was now constrained only by the sagging front of my skirt, and two serpents entered me together, twisting and turning up into my tunnels. I shortly had my first-ever orgasm on the morning train, trembling and supported by my fellow commuters.
He brought his other hand across my arched belly and slipped it up again under my buttoned sweater like he was a boa enwrapping his prey. I leaned my head to one side, dreamily expecting a bite on my neck. The hand moved to my front demi-cups closure and, working the clasp from between my boobs, undid my brassiere. His right hand moved up under my sweater to yank twice at the backstrap to remove it entirely, but without success, the shoulder straps held. My perfectly-fitted French bra hung like an opened bolero around my shoulders, while my sweater had crept up to bunch under my armpits. I must have looked a mess, like a teen in the backseat of a muscle car at a drive-in. The breezes felt icy-hot against my exposed bottom, belly, and breasts.
I could not believe this: a stranger was undressing me on a crowded subway car with people all around us, and I was not only not resisting him, but was urging him to get on with it! Could anybody see us? I was walking towards the consummation in this strange, dark, cavern, stripping off my inhibitions with my clothes, dominated by fear of discovery, exploitation, and surging lusts. The train braked into another station. I dreaded that the train car might suddenly empty and leave me naked to the world, but we continued like teenagers in the back of a movie theatre, urgently exploring each other’s intimate parts. The train sat for several minutes before slowly exhaling and chuffing again out of the station. We moved as if glued together. With a squawk, the conductor announced over the train’s loudspeaker: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the area of the emergency track work is just ahead. Metro Transit Authority has informed us that emergency work has just begun ahead to remove a length of damaged track. It will take a half-hour to 45 minutes. We apologize for this safety-mandated delay.”
Others groaned and cursed. My phantom lover moved his hands to my hips, and wrenched me about to face him. Until this time I had not seen my fanny-familiar. He was a wiry, muscular Puerto Rican, maybe 18 years old, and a little shorter than my 5’6. My panties were in his shirt pocket. His cock was between us, staring up at me. His visage was very dark, almost sinister. I couldn’t believe that a nice Jewish girl like me was about to let a spic have his way with my body, but the volcanic fire in me would no longer be contained; the natives had to throw the virgin over the lip of the mountain. He slid my skirt up over my hips and moved towards me. I looked around and smiled wanly. I guided his blunt tip, sparkling with yet another lubricating droplet, over my outer lips, my hands bringing him into me. He thrust himself smoothly inside my swollen, pulsing entrance. I spread my legs still further and moved to center his probe. His hands moved to the bottoms of my ass, at the same time pushing into me and pulling me onto him. I clutched him fiercely to me and had an orgasm almost as soon as his length slid into me, pulling my cheeks apart from behind as he penetrated. I yelped and managed to push my left leg up over his right hip to better mount him, and his hands lifted me onto his pole. His hands under my butt guided my upward flexions, easing me down as he rammed himself up into me.
He briefly moved his hand from my back and took my panties from his pocket and put them in his teeth to sniff my musk as he fucked me. He looked menacingly idiotic; like an ogre who has just eaten a woman whole, the petticoats still hanging out. Our strokes were long and forceful, and I felt like his dick was pushing up through my entire body. I looked at the ceiling and opened my mouth, my tongue pressing against my front teeth. He pulled apart my sweater and exposed my aching breasts, fondling and caressing me with his dusky brown hands. I took my panties from his mouth, kissed him all over his salty face and mouth, and pulled his head to me, leaning myself back and closing my eyes.
He lowered his head to my quivering chest, kissed the space between my globes, and sucked my left nipple into his mouth. I came again with a helpless moan. He ran his tongue over first one breast, then the other, lightly licking, kissing, and nuzzling them. I wantonly hyperventilated as he tickled my waist, hips and back. All the while our bodies moved in concert with my skirt bunched up on my hips, his dark hands again on my behind. Our thrusts became more urgent and pointed, as my own internal muscle began to spasm and pulse with a rhythm faster than the train’s. I reached around the back of his neck to stuff my panties into my own mouth. I was breathing in short gasps and moaning, and needed the cloth to bite on. I clenched my love muscles around his prick, now desperately trying to beat the ejaculation from this untiring iron. He grabbed me hard, jamming me down onto him, at the same time pushing up into me, finding new corridors inside me and lifting both my feet off the floor. I lost one of my heels, I think, during this. His organ kissed my G-spot. I felt his tool surge and explode inside me, splattering my inner cavities with hot, salsa-tinged Puerto Rican seed. Seconds later I came, melting like wax against him.
He held me against him while I recovered. He caressed my backside lovingly and pulled out of me. A drip trickled down my left thigh. No word was spoken. The conductor got on the loudspeaker and said it would be about another 20 minutes before the train moved. As I aspirated my damp panties, I could feel his erection still bobbing with the train motion between my slick thighs. He hammered against my nether opening, and I moved my leg to accommodate a second assault. My Spanish torero was fingering and playing with my behind, making two determined thrusts with his hot penis. He bent to me again to lick and lightly bite my nipples. I wanted him to nibble me all over. He muttered something and wrestled me around again, my back to him, my skirt still loosely circling my hips and my sweater open for all to see -if anybody could. I kept hold of my purse, I need my glasses for work. My moisture flowed again as I bent for a new assault, grabbing the hems of my skirt so it was up exposing my butt, out of the way. I fully expected re-entry in the Conga style, but the bobbing head of his still-stiff organ pulled away from my nether lips, and I felt it intruding instead between my cheeks.
This kid wanted to fuck me in the ass on my train to work! I had never taken it in the ass before, but his finger tickles had made me receptive, and I was hot and woozy with desires. I wanted that Spanish tamale inside me however he wanted to do it. What I had never accepted from my boyfriends, I now docilely surrendered to a sinister stranger encountered in the urban caverns of the city transit system. As he spread my blushing buns with his demanding, probing hands, I heard him spit in his hand and make his lance shiny, then pressed it against my rear opening. I bit hard on my silkies and closed my eyes again as he pulled my hips back and forced his way into my virgin bottom. I yelped again and grimaced. His cock pushed into my tender behind, the pressure never ending, impaling me. It hurt. His hands left my hips, one returned to my exposed breasts, the other around my belly, diving down into my skirt to finger me again. As his finger touched my clit, I came again on his hand. My moans and gasps were muffled by my teeth-gritted panties, my world dissolving into one of rhythmic, pulsing pleasure-pain. There were squishy liquid noises, loud enough to be heard in the caboose; perhaps somebody had a slurpee?
This spic fucked my ass while holding me clamped like a vise. Then his hand returned to my back and bent me hard over, not caring or knowing I was in significant pain, and mashed up against the back of a large man. I felt his organ tense and seconds latter, he was spurting into my asshole. He pushed forward on my back and against the grip of his hand around my hips as he shot his second load of the morning. I thought he was going to break me in half. He did not pull out. Instead, he rocked slowly back and forth and played with my breasts with both of his hands. I was bent paralyzed against him, impaled on his organ, wedged in by the crowd. His hand moved from my boobs to my face and he took my ‘gag’ from my mouth, encircling my throat with my now-slick panties, then twisting them suddenly tighter. I did not know what to think at this point, but was lost in sexual delirium. I came again with two of his fingers and his monster inside me, strangled by the silk twisted about my throat. I think my pearl strand broke here, but only I was aware of the loss. They had been given to me by my mother -if she could see me now!
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the conductor announced over the loudspeaker, “We have just been informed that in order to complete repairs, they must shut the power in the third rail off. This means the train cars will go dark. They expect this will last 10 to 15 minutes. Please remain calm, there is no danger.” The lights in the train went out. There was a momentary jumble of people trying to readjust for comfort and finding there was no room, or perhaps some panicky claustrophobics changing their predicaments? My boy-lover pulled out dripping again on my thigh, and, hands on my hips again, and another hard jumble of bodies, turned me around to face – what? In the dark I could see nothing. Hands caressed my breasts and hips, armpits and neck, wandering all over me. My Latin amorateur kissed me suddenly, clutching me tightly to him, then moved his hands from my hips to my shoulders and pushed me directly down onto my knees. I felt my panties again looped around my throat, and felt a mental chill as I realized my dark master wanted me to blow him, perhaps strangling me in some extreme gratification afterwards.
I was in a daze as, kneeling. I felt his organ standing in my face. I moved my mouth to its head and took his still-erect prick (doesn’t the wind ever leave these sails?) between my hands, and ran my tongue around his spearhead, which had impaled me three times in the “love-murder” (as grandmother called it). I tasted the flavor of his organ and our sex. I reached up between his legs and grabbed his ass. He stiffened under my loving gropes and I had no thought but to torment him into coming again. This little jockey may have held the halter, but his mare had the bit in her mouth. The sense of reckless danger, of surrender to a demand, to be used and thrown away, returned. I wondered how he slouched against the wall while I sucked him off. He pulled out after jetting his come into the back of my throat. He wasn’t so strong. There was another movement in the crowd, a jumble of elbows and knees. I swallowed and waited obediently like the French maid in the drawing room.
I heard a fastener unsnap, turned towards the sound, then felt pants brush against my eyelashes. I reached up and touched a new man. I swallowed again with mixed fear and want. A hand bunched in my hair, grabbed my panty-collar firmly, and guided me onto him. This tool was dry in the cool air, smaller, and tasted different. It moved with the motion of the train. When my lips were at the head, I kissed to make the end wet, moved my mouth to the underside and nibbled down to the root. I hummed softly on his balls for a time and felt him move. I returned to the tip, using my full lips to stimulate the tip -only, but controlling me by my collar, he went for my tonsils. He climaxed (again?). I tried to back off so he would withdraw, but I was firmly held and had to swallow the load again. It was probably better that he didn’t spurt all over my face or sweater anyway.
The phantom withdrew and I waited primly on my knees. There was movement again in the crowd, and my lips were presented cock again. This time, he held my head firmly and fucked into my mouth. This organ felt different (bigger? I could barely think) yet again, and he pistoned in and out of my mouth like a machine. I was trying my damnedest to keep my lips over my teeth so as not to bite him. He took a rougher grip on my head and hair than black moments ago. My tongue was useless against this assault and I was utterly and completely submissive. Leaning forward with each of his strokes, I could smell his sweat. He climaxed with a grunt, sounding much deeper than the voice I had “come” to expect from my beloved Jesus (isn’t every spic named “Jesus?”). It spurted against the roof of my mouth, and tasted of coffee.
He held my head and kept his cock in my mouth. I felt his prick go limp between my lips, and was momentarily afraid he would urinate into me in some exploitation-domination thing. Breathing was difficult, and he wouldn’t let me get up. There was a sour, lemony aftertaste. I was again afraid the lights would come on and someone might turn around and see me on my knees, my sweater and skirt disarrayed, my posture subservient, servicing a nonchalant Puerto Rican, who was probably leaned back having a smoke. He let go of my head and hair, and after another movement of the crowd, I felt men’s strong arms, seemingly much thicker than my Spanish boy’s, under my armpits and dragging me up against the bodies around us.
A cloud of sweet aftershave enveloped me. I think this is where my skirt peeled off. Weakly and non-too-steadily standing again, I found somebody’s left hand down between my legs and lifting my right leg up. He stuffed my panties back into my gasping mouth to smother my scream as a much larger invader sought my center! I threw my arms around his neck, and mounted a much more robust man, bringing both legs up over his hips as he lifted me onto his tool, grinding my belly against a broad chest covered by a jacket and tie. It seemed as if my current user’s arms were around and under me at the same time as I leaned back against somebody and arched my back and flexed my thighs to again ride the train to orgasm. I came convulsing violently this time, but he and the crowd held me from falling, and he pulled out and came all over my belly and breasts, and had the nerve to try to push my shoulders back down -I guess so that I could lick him off? But no, he wrestled me like a limp rag doll, pushed me down to my hands and knees, and tried to drive my face into the dirty floor with his hands on the small of my back, inserting a monstrous dry (?) penis into my love hole doggie-style. His watch or cuff link scratched my flank as I struggled for pleasure against this new assault.
I moaned through the gag and moved my rear as best I could, but the press of passengers made movement almost impossible, He ripped into me, and it seemed that his organ was stretching my already-exhausted labia to the breaking point. I spit out my gag and screamed just as another train braked to a halt on the track next to us, but I doubt if anybody heard. I tried to buck and wiggle him off and out, but he drove into me with unrelenting determination. The dry invasion was horrid. I felt as if I were being torn apart inside. As I could not stand up with his weight on my behind, I began to follow the forward motions and eventually found myself flat on the floor and free of my intruder, who splashed a load all over my lovely rosy posterior (but for grace, there was my face). I crawled through people’s legs and packages, eventually finding a little space by the doors. The lights came up, and I saw an enormous black man grinning over the heads of the crowd at me as he straightened his tie, and several other men winking slyly at me, one gesturing imperiously for me to come back. My Puerto Rican lover-boy was nowhere in sight.
A goateed businessman standing in front of me offered his topcoat as the doors opened, He led me out of the car, and towards the stairs. I was unsteady and stuporous on my feet, missing a shoe, my skirt, and panties, my sweater and brassiere still hanging open, my body dripping semen from my love hole, my breasts, and my behind.
My savior produced an expensive linen handkerchief with which he gently daubed and wiped me clean; my nipples rose at his touch. He threw the wet hanky into a trash basket; there was a blue monogram on it. He led me around the back of the stair and shoved my face into an iron column, tore his coat off me and pressed his organ up into me from behind. I was too weak to scream, and the taste of the rusted iron of the column was as bitter as the penetration. He was only good for a few thrusts, and pulled out to spill himself on my left thigh.
Out of the corner of my blurry vision I saw a policeman walking up the platform with a questioning look on his face as I slid to the concrete. My debonair “businessman” called “$20!” to him as I collapsed against the column. Officer “Talman” (I was able to briefly read his badge name) reached down for his nightstick -but instead pulled out a bill and his own “baton.” My “rescuer” pulled me erect again, back against the column by my arms, my ass pressed open by the wide, cold curve of the metal pylon. My lower regions again received an intruder, my legs too weak to move to minimize the pain of his entry. I tried to turn my face away, but with my arms gripped around the back of the pillar I had to submit. It was cold on the secluded platform and my nipples were erect, but no longer from arousal. My left breast was being mashed by his massive paw and my face and the front of my body were being rasped and scratched by the brass buttons and catches on his uniform harness and gunbelt. Officer Talman kissed me on the forehead when he finished, after about ninety seconds. I moaned. My bearded captor rewrapped his coat about my limp form and hustled me up the stairs. I think my hands were tied with a silk necktie. I went semiconscious with him into a taxi – where he may have taken me again (or was it the driver? The taxi was stopped in an alley, and everything smelled of a cheap cigar). Somebody came in my hand, the topcoat was a Burberry, and I licked my fingers with a hysterical giggle.
I think I gave a blowjob through the opened window of the car to someone playing basketball on a street corner somewhere, but I didn’t see his face; it tasted sweaty and rank. A bill changed hands again. I recall a brownstone. The bathroom was super, with an iron Victorian tub, a vanity full of scents and oils, and satin sheets on a big brass bed. A naked man came in and fucked me during a languid hot bath; I nearly passed out. My savior kissed me on the forehead, told me to drink some funny-tasting tea, and go to sleep. He said he would be home at six and we could dine with some friends. My hands were still tied. There was a twelve-inch stainless steel dildo on the dressing table; it felt warm and oily when he put it in. I tried to move with it. I had a confused series of dreams about men and women gathered around me, touching, caressing and kissing me; somebody seemed to be videotaping and directing the use of the metal dong, rubbing it all over me.
I awoke with my hands tied to the brass headboard, there was blood on the sheets and I could not focus. The dildo was still pushed up into me, and I ached horribly everywhere below my waist and around my mouth. Instead of calling 911, my first thought was to escape to work! After some struggle, I found that I could free myself from the silk tie. I sat up and took stock: I was naked but clean, and the dildo was expelled by a movement of my muscles taught me by a martial arts instructor I had once dated -take THAT, Black Bart! I found my purse, and there was a closet with some nondescript shoes and a sort of wrap-dress which I could tie to fit; the color was a terrible angry pink. I washed my face and breasts, and found a way to sluice my inner cavities, adjusted my hair, sprayed myself with some cologne, and went to the door to see where I was. I was in what I had always thought to be an office building two blocks from work, and with some luck I could get to my desk with the explanation of the track work and only get docked what I was late; it seemed like a plan.The doorman licked his lips for me when I went past; I tried not to wiggle my behind for him as I walked out, the early sun making silhouettes of me through the thin material of the dress, clinging to me like it wanted to possess me too.
When I got up to my floor, Janie asked what had happened, everybody was worried about me, having heard about the subway work, and knowing I rode it (they did not know HOW I rode it that day!). About a third of the office had not yet shown up yesterday (!) and it was almost three o’clock. Omigod. It was TUESDAY. I said that I got caught in the crowd in the subway and overrode my stop, then had to make my way back, encountering delays in both directions (all of which was true, if you think about it) and ended up missing the whole day. Janie said HR was adjusting everyone’s time due to the transit mess and I shouldn’t worry. I hit my desk and booted up my PC, clearing emails and responding to those which needed attention. As I was doing this, I noticed Guy standing by my left side, looking at my keyboard, and my chest and my exposed thigh.The wrap dress had loosened with my movements and most of me was visible from my left if anybody looked. Guy is a smashing fellow, and I have been flirting with him for years trying to wean him off his gay habits so that fuller advantage could be taken of his available “assets.” Guy put his hand on my shoulder, pushing the neckline of my dress further away from my breasts, and said “Come with me.” I pinched the leaves of my dress closed and got up to follow. He motioned me into his cubicle, where he reached for the front tie of my dress, and said he was going to prepare me for a “special project” which would assure my future with the company.
My dress fell open, exposing my heaving breasts and my naked bod. My face was flushed and my mouth was dry. He pushed me back against the edge of the desk, where I sat on the edge while he knelt in front of me, taking my calves up over his stripe-shirted shoulders, and kissed up the insides of my thighs to my “liquid center.” I lost all self-control with a whimper, leaned back against the desk monitor, and surrendered myself to the best disciplinary tongue-lashing I have had since Junior High School, when I was late for individual lesson with the Band Teacher once. He had the tuba player break my cherry on top of the music room piano for not having been there when he needed me; I was on time every time after that. A soft male voice said “Guy?”and I opened my eyes to see my goateed samaritan standing in the cubicle entrance. Guy waved him in, and he loosed his belt and began to massage his dick, which I immediately bent to kiss. Guy kept up his cunniligual strokes, and began to loosen his own trousers. He stood, flipped me over like a hooked salmon, and banged into me from behind/below. I know when to keep quiet in front of senior management and applied myself to the tasks at hand. I came when he did; Mr. Goatee only wanted me to lick off his tip. He caressed my chin tenderly.
I am typing this tonight of the day after my adventure on the subway (I think; things are all screwed up), staying late to “finish up.” I was told that, with such personal dedication, my position with the Transit Authority was assured. I see that Joe across the way is still here, he always has network problems with his workstation, Perhaps I will get under his desk and see what I might do for him. If I see the man who polishes the floor at night, who wears that blue coverall in the deserted sixth floor, I will give him that special appreciation he has always offered me drugs for. It sure feels good to be sensitive to the needs of the Hispanic community; perhaps I will take a course in Spanish.
I didn’t take my medication this morning – yesterday morning…
– The End –