The Morning Commute

He sat across from her everyday on the subway. Same car; same seat; same time every morning. He would have considered this coincidence odd had he not caught her sideways glimpse one morning as he readjusted his hard-on. She wore a dress that looked like an abstract painting. It hit six inches above the knee and gathered slightly at the waist so that he could just make out her beautiful heart-shaped ass. But it wasn't the dress or how her hair was piled on top of her head into a sexy mess. It was the boots.

Black, matte finish, pointed toe, slightly over the knee. She crossed her legs and swung the top one slowly, almost deliberately slow. Just enough so that the hem of the dress rose and fell, closer to mid-thigh then farther away, revealing a delicious expanse of plump, brown skin. The only thing that made this scene sexier was the black shimmery thigh-high socks she wore underneath. And this is where his eyes rested during the entire 20-minute train ride as she casually flipped through her e-reader, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was devouring her with his eyes.

He was so hard that it hurt, and as he moved his hand down to his crotch to ease the pressure, she peeked. It would have been completely unnoticeable had he not been staring straight at her.

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She couldn't help but bite her lip. She felt his eyes on her and it made her pussy clench. She imagined his eyes like long, strong fingers digging into her hips. He was staring at her legs like he was hungry, like he could take a bite of her thighs. It would have been disturbing if she didn't immediately cream her fresh cotton panties at the thought. His eyes were a clear blue and were framed by strong dark lashes. His mouth was pursed in a tense pout and was accentuated by the tick in his square stubbly jaw. He looked like he'd just woken up. Tousled dirty blond hair, dingy flannel, wrinkled black t-shirt and army-green cargo pants. He wasn't handsome -- he was beautiful. Kind of like an androgynous Calvin Klein model. Typical hipster traveling on the L line and so not her type except for his eyes. There was an intensity there that promised that he wouldn't disappoint. That he'd tug her hair when he kissed her hard. That he'd be rough when he fucked her ass. She tried not to squirm as she stared at her e-reader but she couldn't help herself and peeked. That's when she saw his hand move down to his crotch. Was he touching himself? Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she repositioned herself in her seat so that her purse sat right on top of her pubic bone.

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His eyes rolled over her from the curly top of her pretty head to the tip of her black "fuck me" boots. He knew that she'd seen him touch himself and he smiled gently when he noticed that she'd cover her lap with her purse. The tip of her pink little tongue peeked out, wetting her plump, glossed lips. She shifted and looked uncomfortable until he noticed her hand sneak down to rest beneath her purse. His breath quickened and he stealthily scanned the scene in the subway car. Almost every seat was filled except for a few. And as is the way in New York City, everyone was occupied, whether they were fiddling with their Iphone or Ipad, glaring at their e-reader, or pontificating on their latest roommate's annoying habit of leaving dirty dishes in the sink. Satisfied that no one was watching, he turned back to his target and his breath caught in his throat. Her legs lay slightly opened and her nostrils flared. Her body was visibly tense and as his eyes traveled up to her face, her eyes bore into his. He would not have believed it if he had not been sitting across from this goddess, watching her lips tremble and her hand disappear into the darkness beneath her purse.

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There was no other way to describe it. She was aroused. So fucking aroused that she could not help but move her hand to her lap. The ache was growing in intensity and she was afraid that the scent would alert everyone in the car. She was so turned on by this stranger and it made her ashamed. Ashamed and...really fucking horny. She thought that she might be able to ease some of the ache if she pressed her fingers to her clit to stop the throbbing. But then she noticed that he was staring at the valley under her purse and between her legs and she knew that he knew. He knew that she was pressing her fingers into her crotch. And instead of embarrassing her, it made her hot. This stranger was watching her and she suddenly wanted to please him. Give him a show. When did she become this crazy exhibitionist that fingered herself for a stranger on the subway? She suddenly started to pull her hand away when she noticed that his eyes snapped quickly to her face. He looked at her as if he was commanding her to stop. As if he'd actually said to her "Don't fucking move." His stare was so intense that she found herself moving her hand back down below her purse. It was so intense that she moved her panties aside and slipped one finger inside.

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"Fuck," he muttered under his breath as he watched her push her index finger past her pussy lips. She was actually doing it! It was as if she'd heard his mental call. For weeks he'd thought about slipping past her lily-white cotton panties. He'd thought about sliding his finger slowly down from the top of her clit to her puckering asshole. And here they were. Her eyelids lowered to half-mast and he could tell that her cheeks turned a rosy pink. Watching her made him grip his dick through his pants and move his palm up and down the shaft. This seemed to affect her because her movements grew increasingly jerky.

************************* The harder she dipped, the harder he stroked. They were in tandem, quietly lost in the release of sexual tension that had been building for weeks. Though not actually touching, their eyes and the rhythm of their breath connected them. She moved in and out in a controlled ferocity and he rubbed methodically, but in such a way that his rocking mimicked the swaying of the subway car. As they approached each stop, their surroundings would change but the waves of pleasure that they shared did not. As they approached the last stop on the line, their movements became subtly more frantic until both moved into an awkward shifting. She turned her body to the wall and her mouth opened in what could only be described as a rapturous gasp, and he murmured discretely into the palm of his left hand as he brought his right hand to his side and placed his messenger bag on his lap.

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As she struggled to catch her breath, the train slowly pulled into the last station. What had she done? She pulled her hand up her body and wiped her fingers on the underside of her purse. She couldn't look at him though every cell in her body screamed at her to lift her gaze. How will I be able to face him again? Shame turned into anger and she abruptly gathered her wits, stood up and faced the train's sliding doors. As she moved, he pulled his flannel shirt off and tied it around his waist to hide the stain that framed his zipper. He mimicked her movements and positioned himself directly behind her. As the train slowly ground to a halt she could see his reflection in the glass of the sliding door. She was afraid of what she'd see there but the reflection that stared back surprised her. Instead of smugness she saw determination, like he's was already looking forward to the next time. But would there be a next time?

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As the doors slid open, he followed closely behind her, seemingly to catch the same train to his next destination. The front of his cargos was damp but he could only smile. Though he hadn't actually touched her, the goddess that he's coveted for weeks came for him today. She came and it was his face that she stared at as she crossed over the precipice. That was promising, and as they both parted ways to their opposing platforms, she looked back and he knew that the possibilities tomorrow held were endless. The curve of her lips promised that he would not be disappointed.