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 #3:
My Eyes Adored You
By theGreatxIam

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 boys 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 child. 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 16 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 child.

"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.

Sometimes, when it stops at the corner, you can look
down women's blouses.