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theGreatxIam

Subway series #5:
The Key to the Whole Thing
By theGreatxIam

There are some things to be said for starting work at
6:30 in the morning. But almost none of them are nice.

I get to the office before Katie Couric has batted her
first eyelash of the day for only one reason: My boss
is a USDA-certified Grade A idiot.

I am not exaggerating. You see, I actually work for the
U.S. Department of Agriculture. In D.C. And my boss has
been bounced from agency to agency within the
department for 20 years. He's an idiot, but so much of
an idiot that no one wanted to keep him long enough to
go through all the steps it would take to fire a civil
service employee. Instead, they were so desperate that
they'd even recommend him for promotions -- as long as
that sent him to another agency. And so it went until
he finally came to rest in my little corner of the Ag
Department.

Our job? We give money to McDonald's so it can
advertise abroad. Hey, don't complain to me. I pay
taxes too, you know.

There's not a lot to the job. Every few weeks you cut a
bunch of checks. In between, you get copies of the ads
our tax dollars have purchased and file them. About the
only way to screw up is to give money to some company
that didn't contribute to the current president's
campaign. Considering that most of the big fast-food
chains are bipartisan bribers, there's not much to
worry about.

It's foolproof -- or at least we thought so. Until we
got a fool for a boss.

His screwups are too numerous to mention. My favorite
was when he decided to take the initiative to do some
overseas marketing directly instead of just shoveling
out cash. He figured he had a great deal because he got
a few thousand surplus posters showing a diagram of a
cow cut up into various pieces and parts, and he got
one of our summer interns to slap stickers for several
American chains on the appropriate hunks of cow. Very
cute. But the country where he had the first batch
posted didn't think so.

Those Hindus in India are sensitive that way.

However, what I wanted to tell you about was how I came
to work a 6-to-2 shift.

It's simple. The boss figured that if farmers get up at
dawn, so should we.

But my agency has nothing to do with farmers. The only
manure we see is the stuff our boss spreads through his
memos. And the people we actually are dealing with
don't appreciate it when they can't get us after 11
a.m. Pacific time.

None of this makes any difference to the idiot, which
is why I spend the wee hours of every weekday morning
trying to come up with nice things to say about this
schedule.

I've been on this shift for two years last Wednesday,
and in all that time I'd come up with exactly one nice
thing: The subway isn't very crowded.

That means a guaranteed seat for everyone, which is
quite a luxury, at least in the tourist season. D.C.
has subway stations that could hide the Goodyear blimp,
but there are never enough seats to go around when the
juvenile delinquents and peripatetic geriatrics of
every state in the nation descend on the capital to buy
cheesy souvenirs and stare up Lincoln's nose. It's a
mess, but one those of us on the earlybird shift are
spared.

We're a cozy group, those who rumble underground while
day is breaking overhead. With only a few changes day
to day because someone missed their regular train by a
minute, the same 60 or so people ride with me every
day. Not all in the same train car, of course, but most
have their favorite spot to wait on the platforms, so
even the makeup of each carload doesn't change much,
day to day.

There are, oh, probably 18 or so regulars in the lead
car, the one I ride most often. Aside from those
unfortunate enough to work for idiots, most people
stuck on dawn patrol are those with the least seniority
and the least clout with their bosses -- in other
words, young women. (Yeah, yeah, equal opportunity --
but that just means they gotta hire women. It doesn't
keep Washington's bureaucratic chauvinists from doing
whatever they can afterward to screw them --
figuratively if they can't do it literally.)

So every weekday morning I ride far beneath the purple
skies with a dozen and a half or so women, mostly
young. Mostly good looking, too.

Sure, I look. Oh, I don't leer or anything. But what
else am I going to do? Read the paper? Plenty of boring
hours at work to do that. So I just sit and observe. I
try not to be too obvious, like I'll use the windows as
mirrors sometimes, or concentrate on the women who are
reading papers, so there's less chance they'll catch me
at it.

Hey, wait, this is making me sound like some kind of
pervert. It's not like that, I swear. It's just
ordinary people watching, except I'm lucky enough to
have some very pretty people to watch.

Take Stephen King Lady (she's got one of his books open
constantly. Either she's an incredibly slow reader or
this dude has written more novels than there are
wattles in Strom Thurmond's neck). This woman is maybe
30 -- she really looks 35, but you have to make
allowances for the really awful lighting on the train.
Anyway, she's nothing spectacular for beauty -- nice
auburn hair, but she keeps it locked up in a bun too
often, and her mouth is too wide for my taste. (Sue me:
I'm one of those weirdos who doesn't think Julia
Roberts is such hot stuff.) But what Stephen King Lady
does have is a pair of legs that would make Tina Turner
piss green. I'm talking 60 inches of leg on a 5'4
woman. I'm talking legs so fine we should tear down the
Washington Monument and build 20-story replicas of
these instead. And she must know what she's got because
she puts them on display every day. My favorite is the
dark green skirt that comes just above her knees, but
when she sits it rides up to mid-thigh. Then she
crosses her legs and the slit opens up and it's cut so
high I half expect to see her bra strap at the top.
Most of the times she wears that skirt she pairs it
with sheer black hose that have a few tiny butterflies
embroidered up the back, flying above strappy green
platform soles.

And there's Red, who's got a great body. But she must
be tired of guys staring her in the tits, so she pulls
their attention up with one wild hairstyle after
another and a different shade of red every week. She's
the most dangerous one for me, because it's tough to
hide it when you're staring right at someone's face --
and her face is worth the stare. Skin the color of
fresh cream, a splatter of strawberry freckles across
her cheeks like a pink Milky Way. Huge Bambi eyes,
thick lashes batting inside copper eyeshadow. Lips like
plush satin pillows gleaming wet.

But every girl on the train has her own special allure,
if you ask me. Riding the train is like having dinner
every day in a Ben & Jerry's: Hmmm, which flavor will
it be today?

I gotta confess, though: I do like chocolate.

There are several black women on the train, in all
shades. My eye was most often drawn to the one I call
Cleopatra, because she carries herself like a queen.

Tall -- maybe even 6 feet -- she still manages to avoid
that string bean look. Instead, she's beautifully
proportioned. Proud breasts balanced by an ass so
tempting it makes me flex my fingers each time I see
it. Luscious legs, arms with just enough definition to
show that she works out but she's not a musclehead.
Oval face with wide, flaring nose, plump lips, almost
almond-shaped eyes half-lidded under a high forehead
capped by a short, frizzy Afro. Her skin is amazing --
clear, unblemished, absolutely uniform in color. And
what a color! Almost as rich as cherrywood, with an
undertone of amber that glows like honey in the
shadows.

Cleopatra moves like a sunbeam, gliding through space,
there but not quite there. Her clothes are always
crisply pressed pleats or fluttery whispers of chiffon
or softly draping cotton -- in other words, whatever
she wears, it's always the essence of the material's
nature, as if she was at one with the basic identity of
the fabric. And though she's never flamboyantly sexy in
her choices, there's a subtlety to them that purrs
erotically. A glimpse of her chiseled clavicle is more
alluring than another woman's busting-out cleavage; her
exquisitely turned ankle under a long dress more
enticing than the acres of flesh on a Brazilian beach.
She leaves you with the distinct impression that
there's a lot going on beneath the surface.

OK, so I'm a little obsessed with this woman. Trust me,
she's worth obsessing over. Of course, I might not be
so overboard if I'd had a date in the last six months.
Having to get to bed at 9 p.m. is not conducive to a
great love life in a city where working past 8 is SOP
and so the dating is just getting started when "West
Wing" ends.

It hadn't occurred to me that the women I ride in with
are in the same boat as I am -- until last Friday.

It was one of those awful D.C. days when it can't make
up its mind whether to be rainy or hot so it settles
for a bit of both. The mugginess wrapped you in its
straitjacket as soon as you got outdoors. You wanted to
go out in nothing but your skivvies. But you just knew
that by the afternoon it would be pouring, so you had
to lug your raincoat and umbrella along.

Cleopatra was juggling an umbrella, a raincoat, a
briefcase and a newspaper. Even for someone as graceful
as Cleo, it was too much. She almost skewered Red with
her umbrella as she made her way down the aisle.

Cleo gets on one station after I do. I pick a different
seat every morning -- I prefer variety in my
people-watching -- and that day I was in the rear, just
two benches in front of the back door. Cleo usually
takes a spot in the middle of the car, but Stephen King
Lady had her coat draped over the usual bench. So Cleo
came down to my end of the car. Partway there she
flipped open her briefcase to stuff the paper inside.
The train lurched forward and Cleo stumbled toward me,
keys and pens tumbling out of her briefcase. As she
bent to grab them, her umbrella started slipping on her
right side, away from me; her coat slid down on her
left, toward me. She spread her legs as far apart as
her gray, raw silk skirt would allow, gaining a bit of
balance. It was astounding to see this usually so
languid a woman turn into a frenzy. One arm trapped the
umbrella to her side; she caught the coat in a pinch at
her waist. Her left knee banged into the briefcase,
flipping her pens up in the air, where she plucked them
with her right hand. Theoretically, that left one hand
to grab the keys, but even a queen can't do it all. The
keys hit the floor with a clang.

I'd wanted to help, but that symphony of flailing arms
and legs had paralyzed me with awe -- that, and I was
afraid she'd clock me with a stray elbow. When the keys
hit the floor, she was still bobbing and bobbling, but
my reflexes had me reaching down before I even knew it.

As I stretched down my head brushed past something --
her coat, I figured.

But I figured wrong.

With the keys in my hand, I lifted my head -- only a
few inches; there was something in the way. I twisted
my head and got it up a few more inches before
something wet smeared across my forehead while
something else was trapping the back of my head. And, I
noticed, it was oddly dark. Plus somebody was yelping
something -- kinda muffled, though.

You're probably way ahead of me. Hey, it was early
morning and I was still barely awake; I figure nothing
worth waking up for is going to happen until I get to
the Starbuck's just outside my work stop. So I hadn't
had my jolt of burnt, overpriced caffeine yet, and my
brain was still in suspended animation.

I could have been dead, though, and I still would have
figured out what was what when my nose poked up an inch
or two and buried itself in the folds of a warm, slick,
fragrant vagina.

Well, at least I had found out what mystery Cleo was
keeping under her skirts.

If her skirt had been a little looser or I'd been more
awake, it might have ended right there, with me
crawling out from under, apologizing humiliatingly, and
her probably staring icily or ignoring me completely.

But I'd wedged myself so high into her tight skirt that
I couldn't bend backward, and going forward meant
shoving my nose even deeper into her cleft. Down, you
say -- but that plowed my nose along pussy lips that
were getting wetter by the second. I didn't have a
chance to think about the significance of that last
little fact; I'd discovered that I had a bit of room to
twist my head sideways. Just a bit, just a... All at
once my head jerked to the side, knocking Cleo off her
feet for a moment.

Next thing I knew, my face was squashed between two
powerful thighs and my mouth was lips-to-lips with her
labia, a fuzzy bush tickling my nose. I was still half
on my seat, but I couldn't balance anymore and I fell
to my knees.

As I hit the floor, a cry of mild pain was forced out
of me. The sound was swallowed up as I got a mouthful
of quim.

You know the saying, the darker the berry, the sweeter
the juice? This was one sweet blackberry.

I couldn't resist. My tongue snaked out and licked.

Cleo had been struggling -- to regain her footing, I
guess -- but immediately she froze. I pulled back my
tongue and tensed, ready for her to scream, beat on me,
whatever. I had no defense for that lick. What could I
say, it was a slip of the tongue?

But she didn't scream.

And she didn't beat on me.

Her thighs spread apart, and as she opened herself her
hands came down and applied gentle pressure to the back
of my head.

Not pushing down.

Pushing in.

I didn't need more of an invitation. This was Cleo,
after all, the African queen. My mind's eye conjured
her ample curves, her honeyed skin. I suspect that
picture affected my other senses, because I could have
sworn I tasted sweet cinnamon as I licked the soft
folds at the entrance to her tunnel of love.

I teased at the opening, sliding across, darting here
and there but not quite entering. Musk overpowered the
cinnamon, sticky fluids dripped onto my chin.

My hands encircled her trim ankles in their nylon
sheaths and crawled up the undulations of her perfect
legs. As she reached under her skirt and massaged my
shoulders, I pried apart her willing defenses with the
tip of my tongue.

Slowly my hands crept higher, above her knees to the
taut strength of her firm thighs. My tongue slithered
up until it made contact with the small, yielding
button. Her legs shivered; her fingers dug lightly into
my shoulders.

I wrestled with her clit as if we were French-kissing,
rolling it back and forth, feeling its moist surface,
tracing its contours. And still my hands slid higher,
past the elastic tops of her stockings, onto her hot,
bare flesh.

My fingers splayed out as I flattened my palms, eager
for every possible contact with that beautiful brown
skin. I could feel her heartbeat in my fingertips as
they inched higher and curved around, trembling
slightly, to reach the generous globes of her butt.

Ripe melons, they yielded softly to the pressure of my
hands as I held her ass in both hands, pulling her
toward my fluttering tongue, which continued to attend
to her quivering clit.

Heady scents filled my nostrils, deep odors of sex and
passion. I nipped her love button gently, holding it
lightly in my teeth as my tongue tickled its very tip.
Cleo's legs straddled me as I licked away in darkness.
I couldn't see a thing, but the rustling of her skirt
around me said she was writhing and shaking.

When her low moans cut through even the rumble of the
train, I slid my tongue down from her clit. I heard her
sigh as her fingers dug deeper into my shoulders.
Figuring that was a signal I shouldn't ignore -- not if
I wanted to keep the circulation in my arms -- I let my
right hand crawl around to her front, slipping through
her crinkly bush and twiddling her clit while my tongue
attended to its business just a bit farther down. Her
pussy lips, now swimming in her fluids, spread apart
easily as my tongue plunged into her. Keeping her clit
occupied while I tongue-fucked her seemed to be the
right combination -- maybe too right, for her hands
left my shoulders only to grasp the back of my head and
push me harder against her crotch, almost smothering
me.

Pausing only for occasional gasps of air, though, I
kept up the action. My tongue was deep insider her now,
fast and furious, pounding away as it flicked back and
forth, up and down. Cleo started rotating her hips in
time to my active tongue. I had to keep her ass in the
clutches of my left hand to keep from being bucked off
as her gyrations became stronger and faster.

I kneaded her ass like it was bread dough, holding on
for dear life as I opened my mouth and sucked at her
cunt while my tongue lapped away. My cock was stiff and
straining at the zipper of my pants; I twisted around
until I had my thighs wrapped around one of her legs
and I humped it like a dog.

The pinkie of my right hand was still playing with
Cleo's clit, but I slid the other fingers down and, one
by one, they joined my tongue as it shoved deep into
her pussy over and over.

I tried to slow down, burying my fingers in her hot
gash up to the last knuckles and letting them rest
there while my tongue swirled around, then withdrawing
bit by bit. But after only a minute or two Cleo started
thrusting her cunt at me, quick jerky movements, and
increased her pressure on my head. I gave in and went
with her flow, stabbing fingers and then tongue,
fingers and tongue as far up her slit as I could, all
the while keeping her clit bobbling around.

At last I felt shudders wrack her body and screams as
loud as a siren. I had to use both hands on her legs to
keep her upright as she yelled out something
unintelligible and sagged onto me. My tongue slowed
down, poking in, sliding out to tickle her love button,
as her tremors subsided like a train entering the
station.

When at last she seemed to be done, I reached back and
pulled her skirt off my head, blinking a bit as I tried
to rise. My knees protested, and I could only unbend
them enough to waddle backwards and haul myself into my
seat.

Cleo had her hands on the benches on either side of the
aisle. The dazed look on her face made it clear she
needed the support to stay upright.

For the moment she wasn't my biggest concern. Breathing
hard, I used my handkerchief to wipe an orgasm's worth
of Cleo's fluids off my face. When I uncovered my eyes
I suddenly realized what had happened, as I saw several
pairs of eyes staring at me -- and several others
carefully avoiding me. It was like when you're
daydreaming and blurt out something, only you don't
realize you said it aloud until you notice everyone
around you has gone silent and turned to stare at you.

Remember, I have to take the train every morning. I
wouldn't relish getting up even earlier to catch a
different run, and coming late to work is not an option
with my boss. I'll have to change cars, I thought --
but what if the other women on this one all have the
same idea? Trivial, sure. I guess I was focusing on
that kind of thing to avoid thinking about exactly what
I'd done. I am not an exhibitionist. I usually didn't
even like leaving the light on when I did get a woman
to bed -- if I remembered all the way back to those
golden days.

Maybe that's what happened -- I was rendered incapable
of controlling my actions because my rotten schedule
had flooded my brain with unused sperm, blocking
rational thought. Clearly something had slipped the
mickey to my brain referee -- the one who blows the
whistle on inappropriate inclinations, like when you
pass a woman in a tube top and you have the urge to
yank it to her waist, or when your boss makes some
clueless remark and the perfect sarcastic comment
bubbles up. The brain ref is the one who keeps you from
losing your job or your dignity.

If my brain ref had been on the job, no way would I
have driven my tongue into some dark cunt in front of a
subway car full of women.

But the ref could have blown his little whistle 'til
his lungs exploded and he still couldn't have stopped
what happened next.

Because as my head cleared and I wiped the last smear
from my face, Cleo tapped me on the shoulder.

I slid my eyes along the floor toward her, ashamed to
look her in the face. I saw the black ridged rubber of
the aisle and then there was a puddle of tan -- her
raincoat. It lay on the floor, leading like foothills
to dusky gray heels, spaghetti-thin strips
crisscrossing up her elegant feet to miniature belts
buckled on the sides just above the ankles. Her
stockings were sheer with a hint of white, so every
curve of her legs seemed to glow. Her gray skirt,
slightly rumpled now, led up to an ethereally white
silk blouse, so white it gave off its own illumination.
The blouse was cut simply and hugged her breasts,
folding into a neat V at the neckline that showed no
cleavage but tantalized with a shadowy hint of what lay
beneath. She wore no pins or fancy jewelry, only a
simple gold necklace in a Greek key design. Her neck,
long and regal, drew my eyes upward and at last I
looked her in the face.

And what a face. Her full lips, glistening in deep
crimson paint, were open slightly, showing her gleaming
teeth. Her wide nostrils were flaring with every rapid
breath. Her skin's honeyed accent now looked more like
burnished gold.

It was her eyes that captured me, though. Her pupils
had grown so large they almost crowded out their dark
brown coronas as they swam in pools of white. I had the
feeling her eyes were deep, even bottomless, and I was
falling into them. The noise of the train faded, the
lights winked out, my body was dropping, dropping...

I blinked six times fast, rat-a-tatatatat, and I was
back on a speeding subway. Shaken, I let my eyes slide
down her body, past breasts heaving against silk, past
trim waist, past perfect calves to the puddle of
raincoat at her feet. I could still feel her eyes upon
me, but I carefully kept my head down.

A flash of movement and there was something gray
covering the tan coat.

When the gray was in its turn covered by something
white, I had to look up.

Up perfect legs that now stretched on forever,
unconcealed, twin beauties glowing at every curve. Up
past the white bands that hugged her mid-thigh, up to
the dusky skin, up to the slit still glistening with
moisture. Past the kinky bush, past the swell of her
hips, past the flat, taut stomach.

As my eyes kept crawling upward Cleo reached behind and
unsnapped her bra. Two cassaba-sized mounds bounced
free, nipples erect against half-dollar-sized circles
the color of rich coffee grounds.

She moved toward me then. I had only a fleeting glimpse
of a dozen or more faces all watching us before Cleo
stepped carefully over her discarded clothes. Planting
her high heels on either side of my legs as she sidled
between my bench and the one in front, she bent down
and kissed me.

The touch of her large, pillowy lips was like an
electric shock. The voltage increased when her tongue
pressed into my mouth. I met her hungrily, opening wide
as I crushed my lips to hers. Our tongues wrestled in a
frenzy.

Cleo -- still not having said a word -- tugged at my
belt, yanked down my zipper. I plucked at my shirt
buttons. In less time than it takes to read this I was
naked, feeling the cushioned Naugahyde of the seat on
my bare skin.

Cleo towered over me. A thin sheen of sweat was already
covering her body. With the light glinting off her, she
looked like a statue in polished ebony -- no sharp
edges, no straight lines, all smooth and sinuous
curves.

I've had a few women, and they always look sexier the
closer we get to sex. But I'd never seen anyone as
beautiful, as desirable, as lustily sexual as Cleo at
that moment, naked in all her glory.

I lifted my hands and was surprised to realize they
were trembling. But as they made contact with the warm
flesh of Cleo's narrow waist, a soothing aura of calm
suffused them. Delicately I traced her contours. She
stood astride my legs as my fingers crawled up to her
magnificent breasts, standing straight out from her
chest without a sag. Barely touching her skin, I
spiraled around the slopes, coming closer and closer
until at last my fingertips brushed the bumpy circles
at each apex and the firm but fleshy nipples within.
Cleo shuddered. Her eyelids fluttered and closed, long
black eyelashes curtaining her vision, and her head
dipped backward.

I cupped my palms over her breasts, her excited nipples
rubbing back and forth as I massaged her mounds. I was
transfixed by the scene, this goddess of bronze
standing before me, offering herself up to my caresses.
Her hands glided over her body as well, flowing over
the swell of her hips, meeting in the lush delta
between them. I saw her long, elegant fingers brush
through the crinkly hairs and reach the hot, wet
orifice I had so recently been tonguing. A moan escaped
her lips.

I had her nipples between my fingers then, rolling them
around, gently pinching them. The odor of her passion
rose to me and my hands drifted south, intertwining
with hers at her fleshpot.

My breath was coming in long, shallow sighs, but I
inhaled sharply and then held my breath when Cleo
forsook her own pleasure spot to grasp my stiff cock in
both hands. I felt like clay under the sculptor's hands
as she tenderly traced from engorged, bulbous head down
the sensitive stalk to the root rising out of my balls,
then pressed tighter, squeezing me, milking me. My
hands fell away from her as a familiar surge peaked
within me and gobs of molten cum spurted out of my rod
and onto her arms.

As blobs of the milky white stuff dripped down her dark
skin, Cleo rubbed the cum coating the tip of my prick
down onto the shaft. At first every nerve ending in my
cock screeched in protest, but I was too weak to push
her away. Faster than I would ever have dreamed
possible, though, my cock responded to her
ministrations. It stiffened again and the sensations
switched from agony to ecstasy.

As my arms reached out to her again she slid her knees
onto the seat on either side of me. My cock bobbed
against her flat stomach as she scooted forward until
we were flesh to flesh, her breasts flattened against
my chest. We kissed deeply, tongues entwined, then
devoured each other. My lips fluttered across her
cheek, nuzzled her neck. My tongue flicked into her
ear, teasing a gasp from her as she kissed my shoulder.
I slipped my tongue deeper into her shell-like ear.
Cleo writhed with pleasure and a purr vibrated along my
neck as she licked her way back to my mouth.

Our lips were once more pressed together when she
raised herself up and, holding my cock in one hand,
planted it in her cunt. She sank down all the way in
one fluid plunge, gliding down my greased pole until
her wet pussy lips, spread apart by my rod, rested on
the bushy hair at its root.

We sat just like that for half a minute before she
started the old rhythm, sliding up and down my prick.
Her pace grew faster and faster, her tits jiggling as
she impaled herself again and again. My hands could
find no grip as sweat coated her body. The plastic seat
beneath us squeaked in protest as she pounded away. At
last I could take no more and I wrapped my arms around
her, hugging her tightly until she slowed and gradually
stopped with me deep inside her cunt.

She looked me in the eye, wildly at first, but then a
smile spread her wide lips and she resumed her motions,
slower now, so we could both enjoy every exquisite
second. Every few strokes she would lift off me
completely so the head of my cock would slip out, but
she'd stop just then, with my tip still buried in the
lush folds of her entrance. Then she would let herself
down, with the least possible pressure. Her pussy lips
would catch for a second on my cockhead, then slide
apart. Slowly she would let me into her, spreading her
slit wider until that delicious moment when the whole
head would slide in with a pop and her fleshy outer
lips would close upon my rod. We'd hold there,
suspended in a sexual trance, before going further.

Kissing, then breaking to gasp for air; speeding up,
then slowing; holding each other so close we couldn't
tell whose heartbeat we felt, then moving apart; we
lost track of time -- not just of the minute, but of
the hour, the day, the century. We were in that
blissful space where no words are needed, where
thoughts are communicated by direct skin contact. I
bucked up in perfect sync with her moves, twisting in
the pool of sweat on my seat to screw deeper and deeper
inside her tunnel. My head rocked from side to side; my
feet were pressed against the back of the next seat,
flexing with every insertion. Emotions boiled inside me
and I didn't have enough outlets to release them; every
nerve tingled. My hands roamed all over Cleo's bare
flesh. When she bent backward her tits presented
themselves like a golden platter of ripe fruit. I
indulged my appetite, taking first one breast and then
the other into my mouth, suckling like a babe, nipping
at the tender buds on their peaks.

Still my cock stayed hard, even when Cleo suddenly fell
onto my chest. Her cunt walls clenched my dick in a
vise grip and her fingernails in their rich brown paint
dug into my shoulders, tremors wracking her long frame.
Moans became shrieks and I now had ringing in my ears
the piercing cry I had heard only muffled when my mouth
had brought her to orgasm.

When her shaking and shouting subsided, we took up a
moderate pace. My own orgasm seemed enticingly close
more than once, but the feeling would ebb, leaving
behind the gentle ecstasy of our lovemaking. I was more
aware of other sensations again, like the cooling hint
of a breeze on my scrotum, which was smothered in our
fluids. My eyes, when they weren't squeezed shut by a
near-orgasm, took in a subway car of faces staring back
at me as the lights of the tunnels flashed past.

Cleo began to whisper in my ear, a voice like crumpled
velvet, urging me faster, slower, telling me when it
was just right. I was mumbling incoherently, unable to
find words for what I was feeling.

The sensations became overwhelming again, so much to
take in that my brain refused to process it all at
once. Now I would feel only the liquid friction of the
head of my cock sliding in her tight cunt, then only
the signals from my fingertips gliding over the sides
of her breasts. One moment I lost contact with every
part of me but the flesh on my thighs that was pressed
to her long, lithe legs; then that faded and there was
only her nipples scraping my chest or the butterfly
brush of her breath on my neck as she told me how sweet
it was.

And then at last when the feeling surged within me it
did not ebb and I sensed it growing stronger ever
stronger, my cock growing impossibly harder as the
blood rushed in and Cleo's voice in my ear saying yes,
yes and my ass lifting her up as I stabbed desperate to
go deeper still deeper to force my entire body into
hers as I was closer, closer, closer yet and she was
wriggling atop me sighs forced from her lungs screams
mingling with my own higher and higher her cunt walls
squeezing my shaft no escape no need for it was near,
so near and there, there was it was it the unbearable
closeness hanging on the edge as we rutted two animals
lost in lust seeking the final moment seeking and her
whisper now, lover, now and it. Was. Now.

Hot lava coursing through my shaft firing into her seed
blasting and her own fluids overflowing as she shook
from the convulsion of her own climax draining me pulse
after weakening pulse until there was no more.

I don't remember many details after our long kiss
broke. I must have gotten dressed, somehow, because I
was rumpled but completely covered when I stumbled out
of my station. It had been amazing, incredible, but I
knew it meant nothing more than that awesome moment and
so I went on with my day. Luckily my job does not
require me to be alert, or even awake. I got through
it, but I dreaded the train ride home. How would I face
her? How would I face all the others?

I kept to myself, plastered to the wall of the station.
I almost didn't board; I almost ran to a different car.
But I couldn't change my whole life because of this, so
why change any part? I stepped aboard just before the
doors whooshed closed behind me.

I looked left and right. Every one of the morning
riders was there, even Cleo in her corner. They all had
their heads down, staring at the floor. As embarrassed
as I was, I thought. I took a step into the aisle. The
train lurched into motion.

And 18 sets of keys hit the floor.