Morning Commute

Trying to get my brain reordered so I can write other things.

–

It’s a packed train.

You look convinced that I can’t tell it’s you touching me. The slide of your fingertips along the seem of my tight skirt is so fleeting, surely I can’t tell.

I know it’s you.

I turn my head, pretending I don’t notice you, but I smell your desire as clearly as I smell your cologne. The press of people can’t hide you.

You wait. The train continues on, jostling as it bounces along the track, giving you leave to cup my ass. You make to withdraw, but I press lightly back into that searching hand.

Will you take my invitation?

I feel the brush of warmth just below the hem of my skirt, learning the pattern of my fishnets with a single touch. You inch higher, seeking my warmth that calls to you.

The train rocks and I part my thighs, adjusting my grip on the bar above so I can step back. You take that opening and slide your hand up and between my thighs.

The Lord rewards the brave.

Your gasp is so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the murmur of people and rumble of the train. Now it’s my turn to gasp so soft as your fingers find me. Oh yes, they’ve found me. They’ve found me warm, wet, and welcoming.

There’s no need to be subtle with you now. I press back, I arch just enough, and I lean into the way you touch me.

I loosen my grip on the bar and reach back. Your fingers stall just a second inside me as my hand finds your thigh, but you’re too bold to stop. With each thrust of your fingers, my hand slides higher until I find you. No need to unzip, my fingers know exactly how to trace and caress through straining fabric.

The train stops again, but neither of us do. I’m jostled back until we’re so close I almost wish you’d fuck me where we stand. Just the slide of your dick inside me as our fellow passengers pretend they don’t see. It’s more fun this way, the thrusting of your hand and the stroking of mine.

I’m bumped hard as the train moves on. You steady me with a hand on my hip, digging deep and holding me still.

You’re hard and throbbing under my palm, the metal of your zipper hot. You rock into me, a slight to and fro of your hips as I rub. A sway that lets you grind into me.

My stop is coming soon.

And so am I.

I’m blinded momentarily by the force of it. Your long fingers pressing that perfect spot deep in my cunt that sends me toppling to hard and fast I know the people next to me can hear the obscene noises I make.

The train slows as it pulls into the station and I hear your strangled grunt, and wet warmth greets my fingertips just as I pull my hand away. I wear my satisfaction all over my thighs just as you’ll wear yours all over your freshly pressed trousers.

I sigh softly as your hands release my body and brush my skirt back in order. The crush of bodies carries me out and onto the platform. I don’t glance back because I don’t care to know the shape of your face.

Perhaps we’ll meet on our commune home?