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From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 3 Nov 2001 02:15:04 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Subway series #1: Strangers in the Night
Date: Sat,  3 Nov 2001 01:10:05 -0500
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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 #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 is, basically, a nice red British
telephone booth. 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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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