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(transportation vignette)

by Meme Misspelt

giggling, we slip on to the train, clutching each other. the last seat of the train is vacant. i like the last seat, and i bet you will too: there's a metal panel that rises above waist level, and slightly smoky glass above that, streaky and obscuring.

you can surely hook a leg across mine with no one the wiser, my fingertips could trail up the inside of your thigh, dart under the hem of your skirt . . . and would anyone really be able to tell if i slipped a hand inside your blouse? we freeze for a moment, the train comes to a stop and people clomp on and off. our end is still mostly deserted when the train, and my fingers, start to move again. my nails skate circles on your skin, making you shiver and whimper. but is that someone sitting across the aisle, down a bit, where he? or she? might just be able to see us if angled glances are cast in our direction? sorry, i can't really be bothered to look.

what if you slouch down a bit? can i slip down beneath the bench, crouch between the seat and the panel, between your legs, my hands and tongue and teeth free to explore and nibble, where no one can see? can i grab you, pull you forward, almost to the edge of the seat, duck my head under your skirt give you a long teasing lick through your panties? . . .mmm . . .i slip a hand up underneath your blouse, sneak it underneath your bra, to tease a nipple. . .

the train stops again. . . people exit and people board, off to their dayjobs and their wholesome tourist activities. if no one comes near, you look as if you're sitting alone, slumped down a bit. you might even look as if you have dozed off.

i make like a statue for those seconds. is the train filling up a bit, are people sitting near? you can tell, but i can't. you grab my head as the train starts forward again. i tug your panties aside gently, i run my fingertips up and down your lips. you're so very pretty there, and soft. . . and so deliciously wet. i pull away for a moment and lick your taste from my fingers. . . but i have to taste more of you. i press your thighs wider, you slide just a bit toward the middle of the bench. mmm. . . i lick you and kiss you.

the train stops. i stop. the train goes. . .

long, langorous strokes of the tongue, quick little flicks. i give you gentle little nibbles, pulling with the just the pressure of my lips together. . . and the barest suggestion of teeth. . . ? one of my hands seeks out your hand, our fingers intertwine. my hand is like a throttle, i feel the tension in your fingers, little signals of stop, go, fast, slow. my other hand slips a finger inside you, then another. you squeeze my hand hard.

the train lurches into another station. i wait, almost --  but not quite --  perfectly still, my tongue against you, my fingers teasing twisting just a tiny bit inside you.

but the train doesn't start going again. the lights flash on and off --  oops, end of the line, everybody out. we seem to have missed our stop.

laughing, a bit red-faced, we have to ride the escalator up from the train platform. i stand still to one side, right behind you. i wrap my arms around your waist and pull you hard against my hardness. my hips make insistent little circles. we start to walk across the upper platform. there's a phone booth close to one of the farecard machines, a dark little alcove out of the way of most of the pedestrian traffic --  i pull you into it, lean against the wall, wrap my arms around you hungrily. i kiss you hard, our tongues fencing with each other, doing tiny little dances together. i wonder if you can taste yourself on my tongue, on my lips --  i find the thought of that incredibly exciting --  as if my excitement could be more feverish at this point. my hands are firm on your buttocks, pulling you against me, wanting you pressed, crushed, against me. i turn you around so i can kiss the nape of your neck, grab your breasts --  not so gently, now. i want to make love to you so very, very badly.

there's a throat-clearing sort of noise some time later, and we both jump a little guiltily, startled. the station manager is walking by, all starched and proper in his uniform. he looks more amused than angry. reluctantly, i release you. we go down the escalator to the other side of the platform, to catch the train back. i behave, mostly, on the down escalator --  you stand before me again. i tangle my fingers in your hair, run them down your neck, caress your shoulders.

down on the platform we sit on the bench, pressed close, under the watchful winking eye of the security camera. my hand around your waist, nothing wrong with that. a hand slipping under your blouse, a finger dipping below your waistband, what of it? your hand on my knee, kneading my thigh insistently --  who's to say that's improper? my tongue and breath hot against your ear, little nips, flicks, a hungry little dart --  no, honestly, i'm just whispering a secret. i feel your little sigh more than i hear it.

the platform lights begin to flash --  here comes our train. let's walk down to the end, where we have the best chance of an empty car. . .

giggling, we slip on to the train, clutching each other. . .

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