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is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2001,
theGreatxIam

Subway series #1:
Strangers in the Night
By theGreatxIam

In that seemingly endless British sci-fi TV series,
"Dr. Who," the various incarnations of the good doctor
travel through time and space with the use of a machine
that could fit in the average bedroom -- even a British
hotel bedroom, and thatŐs saying a lot. I suppose that
fit the budget of the BBC, but if the producers wanted
to be more believable, they'd have sprung for a mock-up
of a train car from the Tube, London's justly famous
underground rail network. I ride the Tube faithfully
every time my wife and I visit London, and it always
seems magical to me.

Oh, I've ridden other light rail, and I've liked most
of them. But some of those that rival the Tube in
extent and thoroughness, like New York and Chicago,
spend a lot of time aboveground even as they speed
through key areas. And most others have a relatively
trifling number of stops and a very limited set of
routes.

None, in my eyes, can compare with the Tube. You walk
down into a hole in the ground and emerge 15 minutes
later somewhere entirely different. Magic.

There's more, of course, to the Tube's allure. How
about the way it turns people into a synchronized
mechanical ballet, something like those Rube
Goldbergian toys where you construct a maze of chutes,
tracks, teeter-totters and such and then send marbles
clattering through? When you descend into a Tube stop,
you first slide your ticket through and click past a
turnstile. Then it's a few steps to a long, steep
escalator and through tunnel after bending tunnel, up
stairs, down stairs, up ramps and down, around curves,
with directional signs suddenly ordering you to
abruptly split off from the main path and duck through
a side passage into a completely different part of the
maze. The spectacle is best at rush hour, with streams
of passengers blending together, flowing apart,
occasionally pouring into one big chaotic Brownian
motion swirl and miraculously coalescing again into
separate streams. In some stations your path will from
time to time run parallel to another, separated now by
a row of low fences like misplaced bike racks, then by
long stretches of wall pierced by regularly spaced side
passages so that you see your ghostly companion stream
only in jerky snatches like an old silent movie.

And the Tube is special because it intensifies the
feeling an American -- well, at least this American --
gets that England is actually a mirror USA, something
from that alternate Earth on the other side of the Sun
in the Superman comic books. In aboveground London, the
un-American artifacts are overwhelming. And there's a
confusing admixture of very American items, like a
corner McDonalds. Underground, the environment is much
more Spartan, no neon signs or blinking digital
come-ons, just a few posters on clean tile walls. That
seems to hammer home the unfamiliarities -- the odd
word on an ad that certainly looks like English, but
doesn't mean anything to American eyes. Or the candy
machine stocked with brands you've never heard of, next
to a drink machine selling only boxes of something
called Ribena. What's a blackcurrant? Why do the same
flavors show up in regular and "toothfriendly"
versions? In this world, does green kryptonite make
Superman stronger?

Sorry if I'm getting too weird for you. The Tube can do
that -- because it transports you to another world.

It's a world with no national boundaries. Sit on the
Tube for just a few stops and you'll hear German,
Japanese, French, Spanish, Russian. Maybe even a little
English. You'll see olive-skinned men with big, bushy
moustaches; tall, blonde ice queens with cheekbones
that could scribe glass; skinny Asian guys with that
weird Ken-doll stiffness; what presumably are women
wrapped head-to-toe in a rainbow of silks with
coal-black eyes peering through a narrow slit.

On this particular night, it was a blend of Third World
and First that caught my eye.

My wife and I were coming back from the theater -- one
of those no-pretensions-to-artistic-merit musicals
cobbled together from somebody's light-rock greatest
hits album. Several other shows had let out at the same
time, and even though we weren't on one of the busiest
lines the car was still full. My wife and I got the
last two seats -- her on the outside of a
forward-facing bench, me just behind her on one of the
solo seats facing into the car just by a set of doors.
You're supposed to give up those seats to old folks,
people with disabilities, pregnant women and such.
There were a couple of standees at either end of the
car, but they looked to be quite healthy teens so I
sank into the seat with no guilt and a good measure of
relief. We'd been on our feet all day. The play was a
welcome rest, but it had ended with a 20-minute encore
of the most well-known of the show's songs, pulling the
whole audience to its feet for a stomping, swaying
celebration. Then there'd been the crush of the various
theater's crowds forming rugby scrums we had to
struggle through. And there was some kind of security
alert at the station -- with the several diehard IRA
factions, it seems there's always some kind of threat.
This one had, for no apparent reason, shut off power to
the station's lifts. Lacking the usual escalators, that
meant a long spiraling journey down a cramped
staircase. My wife and I were both pooped by the
bottom. When the train pulled in, we fell into the
seats. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned toward
me briefly and smiled and we settled in for the short
ride to our hotel.

That's when I began to scan the passengers around me.
It was the usual eclectic collection, but just one
woman intrigued me.

She was sitting across the aisle from my wife. Her skin
was the polished brass of an East Asian -- to me,
always the most exotic and tantalizing women; it seems
as if you can taste the curry and other spices when you
see their glowing skin. This woman couldn't have been
more than 5'3 or 5'4, all in perfect proportions. She
had a round, open face, small features except for long,
arched brows etched above wide olive eyes. Elegant gold
filigrees hung from her long, delicate, almost
translucent ears. Jet-black hair with a few shiny
silver strands cascaded in gentle waves to her
shoulders.

Her gently sloping hourglass frame was encased in an
exquisitely tailored dark green suit cut just above the
knee, but with a slit on the side that had fallen open
to expose a few square inches of smooth thigh. That led
down to a perfectly curved pair of legs in sheer hose,
ending in three-inch-high spikes on the butter-soft
leather pumps that matched the forest green of her
suit. The V-shaped opening of her white blouse showed
no cleavage, but it did lay bare the chiseled
collarbone from which sprung a taut neck of elegant
length.

All in all, the picture of a modern businesswoman. But
there were two things that didn't fit, two things that
held my attention, two things that took me out of
London and transported me to a faraway land.

One was her lips. Full, but proportioned to her small
face, they glistened with a rich, dark wine-red hue
that spoke of sinuous passageways to crowded bazaars,
of harems full of beautiful women. I had never seen a
color like that before.

But there it was -- not only on her lips, but also in
the dime-sized circle rubbed into her skin precisely
between her eyebrows.

Her lush lips could have been some makeup maven's
fevered inspiration, but that dot was the pure mystery
of the East. To see it on someone clothed in the
uniform of the working West heightened the attraction.

I tried not to stare, but my eyes kept returning to
this woman's exotic beauty. A time or two I thought she
might have sensed someone watching her, because she
turned around and scanned the people behind her. But I
always slid my eyes off her in time to escape
detection, as far as I could tell.

A couple of stops into our trip, the lights flickered
briefly as we left a station. My wife turned to me in
alarm; I reassured her; she's afraid of the dark. She
put her hand back and I reached out to hold it. As I
did so, I looked up and found the woman across the
aisle looking right at me and smiling. And I could have
sworn she winked.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. She smiled back. No
mistaking that. A big smile, pearly whites gleaming
against wine-colored lips.

I was so distracted that I didn't hear my wife start to
ask me something. She was starting to repeat herself
when an announcement buzzed over the PA system. Like
most Tube announcements, it sounded a lot like the
adults in Peanuts cartoons -- you know, like a muffled
trombone, only on the Tube you have to throw in some
static. All I could make out the first time was
something about power. The second time I heard one more
thing -- or, rather, I heard people around me saying
it: IRA.

There are only a few things that can spook me in
London. Those three letters are all of them.

The train had been moving all this time, but suddenly
three things happened, seemingly all at once:

The train came to sudden, jolting stop.

The lights, all of them, went out -- and stayed out.

There were huge noises like thunder that sounded all
around us and echoed and echoed.

At first there were some voices, but they died off into
whispers and then silence. I don't know about anyone
else, but I was waiting for my eyes to adjust to the
darkness. Gradually I realized: it was all darkness.

Murmuring. Gasps. And then the sound of a door creaking
open. "Attention, please. Attention. It appears there
have been explosions at the stations either side of us.
We do not know the extent of the damages. London
Transport have been in contact by radio and suggest our
best alternative for the moment is to remain where we
are." Some shouts of disagreement. "I'm afraid I must
insist. Until we know what is happening, we must remain
here. For your safety, we suggest everyone remain in
their seats and remain calm."

Then a spot of light as the driver waved his torch --
that is, flashlight -- around the car. "Very good
then." And he walked to the next car.

So there we were, in the dark. I reached out with my
left hand and clutched my wife's right. We were too
petrified to move any more.

Scattered conversations began, and someone was weeping.
With all that, you couldn't hear quiet sounds -- like,
for example, a zipper being opened slowly.

But I could feel my fly being undone. And then a hand
inside, spreading apart my underwear's opening and
drawing out my penis.

Just the thought of it was enough to get me a little
hard -- but only a little. I clutched my wife's hand.
It couldn't be her; she'd have to be a contortionist.
And we really didn't do this sort of thing -- not in
public, I mean. Not so much in private either these
days, but...

Warm, soft fingertips were gently massaging my organ,
which began to respond. I felt a warming of the air
around the head and then -- was that a kiss?

I squeezed my wife's hand involuntarily. "Is something
wrong, dear?" Her voice trembled.

"I... n-no," I managed to get out as someone began to
lick my growing tool -- first small laps at the head,
then longer, firmer licks right up and down,
concentrating on the sensitive line along the bottom.
My penis was almost fully erect now, beginning to ache
a little from standing so tall.

The hand -- now two hands, holding my shaft up, as the
tongue licked it like an ice cream cone. Precum oozed
out of me and the hands swept it up and spread it down,
lubricating my stiff rod.

The anonymous hands massaged me more strongly now. I
could feel something or somethings hard, perhaps
metallic, sliding along with them.

Oh! Now my balls were being taken into someone's mouth!
I never...

The hands roamed up my shaft and rubbed the engorged,
slickened tip. And then, and then warm, wet lips at the
very tip, pressing down softly, snugly sliding over the
head and onto the shaft. Hands closing tightly as
tongue teases tip, poking at the tiny hole and swishing
around the sensitive bulb.

Then down, down slowly, a feeling of suction. Down,
down even more, those hands now holding only the root.
And down even more! Hair brushing against my right
hand, lying almost paralyzed on my leg. I sense myself
inside that hot mouth all the way.

A long, slow slide back up. Then more of the same, more
of the same, more of the glorious same, lips fitting
tightly to me, sliding up and down my shaft, sometimes
bottoming out, sometimes almost letting me pop out.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?" My wife's whisper cut
the darkness like a knife through silk. "Your hand is
so sweaty..."

"It's just so hot on the train," I said weakly. The
tight lips on my shaft had just then slid all the way
down and I could feel the tip of my rod prodding the
back of a throat. "S-so hot."

The sensation was like nothing I'd ever known. Sex with
my wife was good but, well, mechanical. This was
astonishing. As if the nerves of my penis led straight
to the pleasure centers of my brain.

The suction and release with every stroke had me
screaming so loudly on the inside I was sure everyone
else could hear, but there was no sound except for the
murmuring of the other passengers. And a soft humming,
coming from -- oh, my, where it was coming from. My rod
thrummed as the anonymous lips moved up and down.

While I continued to hold my wife's hand, my other hand
reached out. My fingers entangled themselves in silky
hair as I pulled the head closer to me, urging on the
action. Ripples of passion flooded me.

A hand took mine and pulled it down, down. I was guided
past cloth that felt as light as butterfly wings. Down
to a lacy edge, and underneath, to smooth skin. The
soft thumping of a heart kept the soft curve of a
breast throbbing in my hand. I traced the sensuous arc
around and around in a swirling spiral up to the bumpy
circle and the treasure at its center. The nipple was
erect, hard as an eraser. I pinched it and those
pulsing lips squeezed me tighter.

A feeling came upon me like a tidal wave. I twisted in
my seat as my rod grew stiffer yet. And then... And
then...

And then a hand clenched my rod by the root and a
finger pressed into the small bridge of skin just
behind my balls. Somehow it kept me from exploding as
those lips drove me crazy.

I squeezed the tit, just more than a handful. Firm but
yielding, like my wife's when she was young. My wife...
I began to shrivel. I felt my lover in the darkness bob
her head faster and faster. My hand fell away as I
stifled a gasp. My rod surged again.

But as I felt myself growing longer, that hot, wet
mouth slipped off of me.

I didn't have time to react before there was a weight
on my right shoulder. I reached up and there was a
spike heel just a breath away from my ear. I circled my
hand around a perfectly shaped ankle, then gently swept
up a taut leg. As I did, a hand grasped my member again
and held it upright. A wet pressure enveloped the tip.
Bands of delight painted rainbows in my eyes. A hot
throbbing rosebud opened over me, petal by petal. I
smelled musk and cinnamon. In a smooth fluid movement
it sank until I was entirely subsumed. The foot slipped
off my shoulder and sizzled down my side. With what
contortions I cannot imagine, the secret sexpot drove
herself onto me over and over.

It didn't take long. My seed burst forth, gushing out.
She continued to ride me until I slipped out. My hand
was yanked toward a boiling pit. I plunged in one
finger, then two, twiddling faster and faster. It took
a minute or two and I felt the wet fold convulse. The
scent of cinnamon grew stronger and a pair of lips
pressed against mine, tongue pushing in to wrestle with
mine.

It was over before I knew it. The train's lights
flickered for a few seconds and then came on. I quickly
glanced down to find I'd been zipped up, but my whole
lap was noticeably damp. I gathered my raincoat around
me just as my wife looked back, blinking. "My," she
said, "you look so flush. My poor dear."

I smiled weakly, not trusting my voice.

The train crept forward to a station filled with dust.
I worked up the courage for only a quick glance across
the aisle. The woman I'd been watching was staring at
me. When she caught my eye she winked slowly. One
manicured fingertip traced her lower lip as several
gold rings glittered.

Then we were being ushered off by bobbies and I didn't
see where she went.

So now you see what I mean. It's a different world in
the Tube.