NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2001, theGreatxIam Subway series #2: Thanks for the Memories By theGreatxIam You've just stood for five minutes in a cafeteria line to get today's version of an allegedly healthy meal -- wilted brown lettuce and tuna that came from a fish tossed onto the boat by its picky peers because it lacked taste. That and a lukewarm cola from the don't-call-it-Coke machine are going to set you back $4.50, if the unsmiling mouthbreather at the cash register ever finishes her interrogation. That all? For here or to go? Cash, charge or on account? On account of you're driving me crazy, you want to say, but you just tell her "cash," since the $10 bill in your hand apparently isn't enough of a clue. She plucks it away, slides it into a cubby in the cash drawer, and counts out your change, just like they taught her: four-fifty, five, ten, twenty. What do you do? Come on, quickly! The guy behind you in line is already shoving his tray full of carbohydrates forward. Do you rush away from the cashier quick as you can, trying to decide whether to spend your extra $10 on the Lotto or a few beers tonight? Do you sidle away cautiously, trying desperately not to attract attention, rehearsing the pose of astonished innocence you'll adopt if the cashier catches her error and calls you back? Or do you hold up the line while you try to give back the extra cash, even if it means explaining it twice, slowly, in little words, before the cashier understands and accepts the money with no thanks and perhaps even a hint of suspicion in her glance? That last one is me, every time. I can't help it; I was raised that way. Being honest and polite in today's society sometimes feels like the whole world's a set of biker's leathers and you're a pair of oxblood wingtips. Refuse to join your fellow students in cheating on a test and you become a social outcast. Try to hold open a door for someone, man, woman, or child, and you get tangled in a jerky waltz of feints and sidesteps; they're waiting for you to swoop in front of them. Allow a pregnant woman juggling a gallon of milk, a box of Frosted Flakes, two apples and a peach to cut in front of you and the woman behind you interrupts her cellphone conversation long enough to drive her full-to-the-brim cart into your ankle in spite. Bottom line? It doesn't pay to be polite today. But that's not the point, is it? You're not supposed to be polite so you can earn a reward, at least not in this world. You're courteous because it's the right thing to do; you're polite because that's how you'd want other people to treat you; you're honest because to lie is a sin. You don't get anything in return. Well, usually you don't. That's how last Wednesday started out. I was slow to get out of bed because I'd been up late the night before instant-messaging and e-mailing my nephew Pete, who had a term paper due on the Napoleonic Wars. As the only one of my family -- two brothers, two sisters -- who's childless and single, I'm the one who gets called on for all late-night emergencies. I'm not quite sure if that's simply because my siblings figure I have no social life or some subtle form of revenge because I do. In this case, I couldn't complain much about the logic. I was a history major for two years before I switched to business when I decided I had gotten too attached to eating regularly. My brother is the mechanical one, and my sister-in-law -- well, suffice it to say that with her education, the sum total of her knowledge of the Napoleonic Wars comes from being able to sing the chorus of Abba's "Waterloo" verbatim. So I was the lucky pup who got to stay up all night electronically coaching Pete through his paper. He kept asking if I couldn't just tell him what to write. Instead, I directed him to several good Web sites, told him to send me an outline, rough drafts, the whole "give a man a fish-teach him to fish" routine. Sometime around 2 a.m. Pete informed me he was finished -- a surprise, because I hadn't even seen a full first draft. That's when he told me he'd also been IM'ing some of his classmates and they'd sent him to a term paper site where he'd bought a B+ paper with his mom's credit card. He signed off without even a thank-you. Like I said, you don't get anything in return. I'd finally gotten to sleep sometime around 3, so when my alarm clock clanged at 6 I just punched it off and rolled over -- for a few more minutes, I told myself. It was 6:45 before I peeled my eyes open again. So much for having a leisurely breakfast, which is how I like to start my day. So much for having any breakfast, in fact. I raced through my morning ablutions and was almost back on schedule when I heard the first crack of thunder. I spent 15 minutes searching for my umbrella before I remembered that I'd loaned it to my cubicle neighbor for his lunchtime dash to the coffee shop three days ago and he never gave it back. Never gave me the change from my double tall latte either, it occurred to me. Oh, well. At least I'd have the morning paper outside my apartment door. I prefer to read it on the train, so I always leave it outside until I leave. Today it could be an impromptu bumbershoot. But... no paper. Not the first time that had happened. I suspected the woman two floors up whom I'd caught a couple of times peeking out of the elevator when it had mysteriously stopped on my floor before I could get to press the button. Our floor was an obvious target for paper snatchers because there were four of us who all got home delivery. In fact, I noticed, 6-C hadn't retrieved his paper yet. I admit I hesitated, but only for a second. It just wouldn't be right. I was already running late, so I couldn't wait for the storm to pass. I was resigned to getting soaked. But by the time I got to the lobby, it looked as if it were letting up a little. The doorman offered a cab, but I gestured to pass it on to a woman who I'd passed in the lobby wrestling with an umbrella. The doorman had barely gotten the cab door open when the woman shot past me, throwing her umbrella and a paper into the car and jumping in after them. As the cab drove away, splashing my slacks, I got a look at her face. It was the paper snatcher. Ah, well. It wasn't raining that hard. And I only had six blocks to the subway station. I started to hoof it. Halfway there, it began to pour. I quickly had water streaming down my face. Ducking under the narrow overhang of a newsstand, I bought a paper. I only had a $5 bill. The guy gave me change, mostly in pennies. As I raised the paper over me and stepped away, I noticed he'd given me 3 cents too many. Two other guys were lined up to buy papers so I stepped around them to hand back the pennies. As I did, I felt something cold on my foot and looked down. The puddle was at least four inches deep. I squished and squooshed the rest of the way. By now I was so far behind my schedule that I'd run smack into rush hour. I had to wait for three trains before I could even squeeze onto one, what with people pushing past me. Let me make this clear: I get up so early -- normally -- because I am not a sardine and I don't like being treated like one. My usual subway ride is a calm, if jolting, trundle. I can always get a seat -- indeed, I usually have enough room to spread out my paper without disturbing anyone next to me. Not so on this morning. The subway car was jammed full of damp humanity. I could barely move, but with some effort and many apologies I began to ease away from the doors and toward the center of the car like the signs tell you to do. And then it appeared. An empty seat, right in front of me. I swear an angelic choir sent forth a hosanna. I was wet from head to toe -- well, at least my right foot's toes -- I had no newspaper and I was going to be late for work. But at least I had a seat. I dove down into it. Bliss on a metal frame was that cracked orange Naugahyde. I closed my eyes for a moment to savor the feeling. When I opened them, there, right in front of me, was a little old lady. Dried-apple face. Babushka. Mesh shopping bag. Black socks and sandals. The whole nine yards. My backside tried to burrow down into the seat but my soul pulled me to my feet. At the same moment, a woman across the aisle also got up. We bumped elbows as we both gestured the old woman to our respective seats. She looked us both over as if we were escaped lunatics. I guess I looked the part more, bedraggled as I was. The other woman had evidently had benefit of an umbrella for her trip to the train. Her blonde hair, which fell straight back halfway down her pin-striped blue jacket, was shiny and dry. No drops of water on the tip of her aquiline nose or the tops of her rosy cheeks, nothing to distract your attention from her startlingly blue eyes. Whether it was appearances or the fact that my abandoned spot now had a puddle in the seat, the old woman picked the other offering. As we shuffled around, I then offered my seat to the polite young -- 30ish, I'd say -- woman. She declined. I insisted. She demurred. We could have gone on with this Alphonse and Gaston act for quite awhile, but she pointed out it had become moot. Some crewcut in a Raiders T-shirt had slid behind and taken my seat. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's my fault." "No, no, not at all, miss." "Call me Diane." "No, Diane, it wasn't your fault. If anyone's to blame it's..." I indicated with a sideways glance the Raiders fan. Diane smiled. "Some people can be so rude, can't they? It's a joy to find someone else who'd actually give up his seat... I'm sorry, I didn't get your name." I told her. We chatted a bit until the noise level made intelligent conversation impossible. By then we'd been buffetted by the jostling crowd. I had backed up against a pole at the side of one bench seat in an attempt to give Diane a little breathing room, but the car got even more jammed and she was forced right up against me. We both started to apologize. Then we both indicated the other should go first. But that part was communicated only by eyes, for a further stuffing of our already over-full car had pressed her flat against me. Well, flat isn't the right word, for their wasn't a flat spot on Diane. She was all curves, and lush ones at that, as I was now finding out in the flesh. Her breasts -- as large as any in Playboy, I could see by a discreet peek down her bright yellow silk blouse (and here I hasten to add that I've only seen those breasts on the cover, of course) -- her breasts were squashed into me. By the feel of it -- of them -- they were even erect. Or so I surmised by the fact that it seemed as if two pencil erasers were being pressed into my chest. Her stomach curved away and lost contact with me, but from her, um, pelvis down she was in very definite contact. So much so, in fact, that I feared she couldn't help but notice that my body had -- entirely without my brain's permission, I assure you -- responded to her. At length, if you get my drift. Alas, drift is just what I did, sliding back and forth across Diane's front as the train jolted into movement. Her eyebrows rose; there was no doubt she had noticed my embarrassing state. Not that it would have been easy to miss it anyway, with my now fully erect penis forming a large bulge in the front of my trousers pressing directly on her. In any event, I had to apologize, and I did, couching it in vague terms to spare her further embarrassment herself. But she smiled and said it was no bother. In fact, she leaned forward and whispered it in my ear: "Don't worry. I'll take care of it." I had no time to wonder what that meant, for no sooner spoken than I felt a fumbling at my zipper and it slid down; a groping against the fly of my underwear and my member was loose. Well, as loose as it could be, trapped between us. Diane's soft hand stroked the stalk while the tip enjoyed the tantalizingly slight roughness of the weave of her suit's skirt. "Oh," I said. "Indeed. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, Diane." She smiled again and put her other hand down between us. Soon her skirt front was bunched up and the head of my penis was rubbing against smooth silk. To be followed in short order by my hand, as I returned the favor she had granted me. While she continued to minister to my member, aided now by the lubrication of some precum that had leaked out, I returned the favor she had granted me. Palming the front of her panties, I cupped my hand and began to squeeze gently and rhythmically. In short order I felt the heat rise and a dampness. I slid up her smooth stomach and slipped down inside her panties, inching through the curly hairs until I reached the mother lode. All this, let me remind you, was on a subway car packed to the gills with passengers. The privacy of the crowd, that was: Everyone was trying so carefully to avoid invading one another's privacy in that very unprivate space that no one saw what was going on right in front of them. Indeed, doing it in a public place seemed to add a special frisson to our actions, for my penis felt thicker and harder than I had ever remembered it, and the sensations as Diane massaged it -- occasionally sliding all the way up and rubbing the increasingly sensitive tip -- were like none before. Meanwhile my searching middle finger had found the entrance to her honey pot and dipped inside. Two steps forward, one step back, I eased into her, feeling her pussy lips blossom open. Deeper, deeper, now two fingers inside here and the gooey lubricant of her own juices flowing over them, I pulsed in and out. Up above, Diane and I were carefully avoiding looking at each other, save for quick but meaningful glances. Still, I could hear her breathing grow shallow and knew I was doing the right thing down below. How right I didn't realize until both her hands abandoned their other tasks and grasped mine, shoving me further inside her. "Faster," she whispered, and a few seconds later her head tilted back and I felt her bod convulse against me. She brought her head forward again with a broad smile and put both her hands on me. But it was too much and I couldn't hold back. I immediately thought of the mess it would make on her nice suit and tried to pull away, but Diane would have none of it. Instead, she lifted her right leg and, pulling aside her panties, slid my member into her hole, just in time for an explosion of cum to burst inside her. She held me there as my penis pumped a few more times and was still. That might have been that, but while we were still so entangled the train lurched to a stop at the next station. The motion plunged me in and out of her, and quickly, to my astonishment, my member was rigid and ready once more. "Why, thank you, kind sir," Diane teased as she began to move her hips against me. The primordial dance took us over. My pole slid into her like a blade in its sheath, a tight but perfect fit, driving deep into her cleft and out again. Her skirt was now completely gathered about her waist and I took advantage by sliding my left hand up and down the smooth curves of her stockinged leg while the left squeezed the tender globe of her behind, pulling her tighter against me and sending me even further up her canal of love. Plastering my back against the metal pole behind me, I took her weight on me as we matched our tempo to the jerks and lurches of the ride. We really didn't have to move much ourselves; the train did all the work as penis and pussy played hide and go seek. A screeching brake and I plunged into her, the noise masking her own squeal; a sudden acceleration and I slid out almost all the way, only to have the head of my shaft pierce her again. It was the first time I was ever happy that the transit authority was so stingy about track maintenance. Every bump was another jolt of sexual heat. We had been going at it for about 15 minutes or so when I heard the conductor call out my stop. "I get out here," I said regretfully. "Do you have to," she said, and squeezed me, not with her hands. "I think I can stay a little longer," I said. "Thank you," she answered, and we continued. Hot and hungry, her opening devoured me. Hard and horny, I took what she had to offer, and took it again, and again, and again. Each stroke was like the first, a slide into heaven. At last I felt the ending drawing regrettably near. Just then the lights flickered out briefly. Diane's mouth found mine in the momentary darkness; lips spread wide, our tongues touched. I felt my loins tighten and then a gusher came forth. Even as I was emptying myself into Diane a second time, she tightened up; I saw the muscles on her neck form taut cords and felt the muscles of her vagina pulse around me. She milked me dry and continued to convulse herself as I softened inside her. She was still trembling when my completely limp member slipped from her. We looked each other in the eye then, and smiled. She put my flaccid penis back in its pocket and zipped me up. I eased down her leg and straightened out her skirt. The train doors opened; it was her stop. She raised her eyebrows; I nodded and mouthed my thanks. As she stepped out into the station, she looked back at me. I just caught the words. "Thank you," she said politely.