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From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 1 Mar 2002 21:29:25 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Subway series #5: The Key to the Whole Thing (MF, interr)
Date: Fri,  1 Mar 2002 23:10:08 -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 2002, 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.

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