She shouldn’t have been out so late, but that had never stopped her before. Her delicate, strappy stilettos and the plunging neckline of her dress broadcasted both her sex and her vulnerability. She might as well have stripped naked and painted a target on her back. To a strange man’s eyes, her look said, “Harass me. I’m obviously asking for it.”
Was that what the man sitting across from her was thinking? Possibly. He was in formal wear too– not unusual for a Saturday night in the city. Tailored suit, black, silk lapels, thin tie. Crisp white shirt beneath. Shined shoes. Pleated pants. What was unusual was that they were alone in the subway car, entirely without company except for each other. Not even the city’s homeless were out on the trains this late.
It occurred to her that if he tried something, there wouldn’t be anyone to hear her scream.
If she’d been a smart girl, she would have gone home earlier. Tumbled into the back of a taxi with her girlfriends. Stumbled back into her apartment, downed a bottle of water, popped some aspirin, turned on Friends. Passed out safely between cool sheets behind a locked door.
But there was no thrill in playing things safe. That was what she told herself: that she was a thrill-seeker, an adrenaline junkie, a wild girl with no inhibitions. But that wasn’t it, was it? No– the excitement of the danger was secondary. What she really wanted was to live unconstrained by fear.
That’s what it was.
Slowly, she mimicked her companion’s posture. The friendly arm draped out over the neighboring seat, like he was making a move on a blind date in a darkened movie theater. The confident line of his lips, the look of superiority in his eyes as he watched her. She watched those eyes trail downward as she perfected her pose: a mirror image of this strange man across the subway car, she spread her legs wide, like a peep-show whore or a man asserting his ownership of the space.
The dress was too short to conceal much. Her panties had been discarded before she even left her apartment that evening– they made lines in the dress. She knew he had a full view of her sex, the dark curls of her pubic hair, the shadows in the dampening ravine between her pussy lips.
There was the clank of a belt. The sound of a zipper. And then, there he was, cock in hand. His lips said something else now, wordlessly smirking at her. Smug. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.
She didn’t allow herself to glance around suspiciously, ensuring they were alone. Now it was a challenge, a game of chicken beneath the glow of the subway lights. He pumped his cock once, twice, staring her down. Your move.
Her heels scraped against the floor of the car as she shifted. She was spread wider now, even more exposed. Always the entertainer, she traced her inner thighs with her fingertips first like a magician doing slight of hand. But even her sense of showmanship couldn’t stop her from the final destination of those fingers. They moved upward, teasing the damp curls of hair on her labia, slicking against the sensitive inner lips. Brushing up, then down, then circling around her clit. The movements of her fingers said, “I know how to please myself. Could you do as well?”
If he understood her, his only response was to pump his cock harder.
Who was this man, this handsome stranger sharing the end of her night? A businessman, headed home after a long meeting? A club promoter on his way back from work? He had all of the refined good looks of an haughty heir of a huge fortune, a billionaire out on the town, riding the subway all through the night as he tried to remind himself how the lower class lived.
She was in love with him and in hate with him all at once. His scruffy, shadowed facial hair; the sleek style of his auburn locks; the way he devoured her with his eyes as he stroked himself, hard and erect beneath strong fingers. He clenched himself harder as she slipped her middle finger between her folds and deep into her pussy, then her index to follow. She strummed her g-spot like the string of a bass guitar, hitting note after note in perfect succession until her heels were digging deep into the floor of the car and her shoulders were tensed hard against the window at her back, braced for release.
When she came, she came violently. Orgasm hit her like a shotgun shell to the chest and she reveled in it. Her body bucked and trembled like that of a woman possessed, and all along she watched him watching her until he found his orgasm as well. His semen shot upward, onto his shirt and lapels. There was so much of it, an intoxicating amount.
Before she could control herself, she found herself rocked down on her hands and knees, crawling towards him despite the dirty floor like an animal stalking prey. She lapped it up, fulfilling the craving, giving into the need. Long, slow cat-licks, slurping as she cleaned his semen from the silk of his lapels, the linen of his shirt, the velvet of his tie.
He was going to have a hell of a dry cleaning bill.
His gaze was paralyzing as she licked her lips clean: hazel eyes, bright like a harvest moon. She knew she should say something, but what was there to say? Her arsenal of witticisms had escaped her.
Instead, she pushed off of his knees and brought herself to her feet. The slow, rocking motion of the train settled as it pulled into the station: her stop.
And silently, she straightened her skirt and winked at him before she broke his gaze and left the car, stepping out into the night.
If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday, where getting off is only a right-click away. Masturbation is good for you– so this week, don’t settle for doing it alone. This is week 55 and my first go at a submission, but there’s a whole hell of a lot more where that came from and much, much more left to come.