Sexy Stranger Erotica
"Ulterior Locomotive," a Dirty Martini Sex Story by Michael Kitt
It’s too early. Every goddamn morning I say the same thing, run the same monologue through my head. It’s too early. I wish I were still in bed. Why do I do this? Why do any of us do this? It’s always the same, easy answer: Money. I need money to eat. I need money me in house and home. I even need money to catch this train and get to work in the first place. The answers are obvious, the questions boring, but I keep running the repetition over and over in my head.
If only the morning run featured anyone interesting. We’re all the same. Dark overcoats, suits, and shirts. Ties. Shit, even the women are wrapped in trousers and ties these days. Not a decent view for any of us. A sea of black, gently waving back and forth as the train weaves its way around hills and under bridges. Here comes another stop, making those poor fools who didn’t get a seat slosh forward as the train breaks. Like water in a basin, lapping at the edges.
I watch as a few dark suits shuffle off. Twice as many shuffle on, cramming themselves into every available space. As they settle in and the train takes off, heads wobble with the acceleration and part the crowd, allowing me a first glimpse of her. Finally, someone worth looking at! And she’s a stunner. Blonde, for starters. Normally I prefer brunettes, but on this drab morning a shiny head of gold stands out like the brightest star in a foggy night sky. She doesn’t see me yet. She’s standing up, her hand gripping the rail tightly, holding on as we move. I’m seated across from her, maybe two meters away. I grab snatches of her through the tangle of arms and torsos. I’m uniquely positioned to see her lips and her hair, but not her eyes. Full lips, of course, how could I expect a knockout to have anything but? This thought makes me worry. What if her eyes aren’t as…what? Aren’t as good as the rest of her?
We near another stop and I wonder if I should get up and get a better look. I freeze, nervous. The exchange of passengers takes place and I get to see her face in full. Yes. Very nice. Very nice, indeed. Fuck, she’s beautiful! What chance do I have? Double fuck, she’s too beautiful! Happy I didn’t try and move closer, I sit back and satisfy myself with choice glances. Her breasts are tight, their shape moulded by a fitted blazer. The jacket’s slate gray, but against the pale morning of the window behind her, the silhouette of her body’s made clear to me. Sleek lines around the curve of her bosom, my eyes scan down her form, roll over her waist and hips. Curvy. Full. Fuckable. Fuck, she’s sexy. She’s too sexy…or maybe not? Maybe she’s my type of sexy, but no one else’s? I look around at everyone else on the carriage, checking faces. Every single one is cast down at a book, a phone, or the floor. Am I seriously the only one noticing her? Ha! Just my luck. She’s all for me.
I go back to noticing her and – what was that? She was looking at me while I was looking around at everyone else! Her eyes, dark brown, big, flutter away from my full gaze. She looks down and away, hiding behind her lashes. Sometimes these stolen glances are dubious when caught by the glancee, but this morning I know what I saw, and the thrill sends my pulse racing. Blood pumps through my body and sitting down becomes difficult.
Then everything goes dark. The train’s grinding becomes more apparent as the echo of the tunnel bounces sound around us. We’re nearing the city now. My chest tightens with the thought that soon she’ll get off. I need to make a move. I need to do something before she goes. That glance is a starting gun I can’t ignore. The train rolls to a squeaky halt and a large chunk of people move off. Fuck it.
I stand up and move to the door, seeing her watch me out the corner of my eye. I pop my head out the door, look at the sign, then frown in a way I hope says, “Hey, this isn’t my stop.” I turn back to look at the train, at my seat. A heavyset man with a moustache has taken it. Perfect. I shrug in the portrayal of a man resigned to stepping back into the train. Uttering light excuse mes, I push my way, maybe a little too obviously, towards the vertical pole she’s now clutching. I reach out, not really looking, but keenly aware with every molecule of my being, and take hold of the pole.
My hand is just above hers. She looks at me then looks away. Both she and I are attached to the same pole, but there’s a gulf the size of Bass Straight between us. I turn slightly so my shoulder touches a nearby punter. He gives me a gruff look, annoyed he’s been distracted from his phone. I apologize and move away from him, stepping closer to her to give him room. I’m pressed against our divide now. I’ve made my move. I slowly breathe out and wait.
A moment screams achingly into two moments before I feel a shifting next to me, then a human warmth presses against my body. My nostrils fill with the sweet perfume of her hair, a conditioner or shampoo or some other brilliant lotion I could never begin to guess at. I can’t help but smile. The train rocks and our bodies lightly grind. I move my hand slowly down the pole, the base of my fist making contact with the top of hers. She’s soft. Of course she is. Her hips push onto my side. Imperceptible to anyone but her, I rotate my own hip. It’s a light grind of trousers on heated skirt that sends a shiver up my spine. I look at her forearm. Goosebumps.
Since touching the pole, neither of us has made eye contact. It’s better that way. I apply a hint of pressure to her hand and we both slowly slide down the pole, below the eyeline of our fellow punters. Below the canopy, our hands reach thigh level. I take a risk and slide my hand off the steel, along her arm, climbing up her goosebumps. The train rocks a little, forcing me to use my elbow to hold onto the pole, but allowing me to smoothly move my hand onto her skirt, at the bend where her thigh meets her hip. I’m immediately hard, feeling the humid strain against my trousers. I want desperately to roll my body around and press my hot flesh against her form. Instead, I stroke down her thigh, then press firmly and push back up to her hip. Small circular motions massage their way further towards her, teasing her with each retraction, but promising more with every return stroke. I hit a sweet spot and her hand launches off the pole onto my leg, as if she almost fell over and needs me for support.
I twist my body slightly in a way that grants her access. The train disappears into another tunnel. I’m ultra-aware of the position of my cock. I’m focussed on the slow march towards her soft centre. My imagination is flooded with visions of her nipples, rubbing against the cotton of her bra with the same thrill the head of my shaft gives me with right now. I can’t wait. I rub over her mound and cup her pussy. She welcomes me by letting her legs spread a little. The material of her dress is taught, but I’m still able to rub. I hear her breathing quicken and am reminded that there are people inches away from us. No one turns, but I look at the backs of their heads. Cheeky, filled with adrenalin and a light fear of being caught, I move closer, stop my hand for a second, then rub harder. She grabs at my cock, clutching my stiffness as if she were holding the pole once more. The train isn’t jerking us around, but she squeezes me so hard you’d think the carriage was careening out of control. I thrust into her fist, lift her hips with my palm, fingers burrowing between her thighs. She starts to pull me off, nothing too obvious, all of her effort coming from her wrist. She drops her head down away from me, pretending I’m not even there while her hand proves the opposite. Her nape is all bumps, her hair standing on end. I lightly blow across the back of her neck, then pull her by her cunt, bringing her closer to me, shifting around so her hand is pushed out the way and my cock presses into the cheek of her arse.
Light bursts through the windows. The train escapes the darkness of the tunnel. Our hands fall, snapping back to our sides like school kids caught in a cupboard. We turn away from one another. I look around at the dark sea of punters. No one notices a thing, all still absorbed by their phones, books, and floors. I look at her, catch her eye. Her face shows no expression, and my own is tight but blank. The fine glow of perspiration on her brow gives her away. I rub my hand across my own face, realizing as I do it that it’s the same hand I’d just been using. I can smell her.
The train stops and people shift. I look up at the sign. It’s my stop. Without looking back, I let the flow of humans take me off the train. My balls ache with tension and I turn back to the look through the windows. I can’t see anything, but as the train pulls away I notice a hint of blonde. Faster than I’d like the carriage is gone and I’m left standing on the platform, the only one not moving up the steps. People push past me and I realize I’m in the way. I move with the crowd, once again rubbing my face with the sheer, “Holy fuck” of it all. I can still smell her.
Pinstripe, by Ray Leaning (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
Copyright July 29, 2011
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.