Birthday Train

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An unusual birthday present; anonymous sex on a train.
4.8k words
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Another year soon passed, another year untouched, but this was no ordinary birthday. I would soon turn thirty, about to start my fourth decade with my wall still up, my cave unexplored, a virgin still, through and through. And I was frustrated about that, let's not kid ourselves. I had been perpetually lascivious ever since my discovery of fingering at the age of four.

One would be driven to ask why I was still a virgin, fast approaching my thirtieth year. Was it because of principle? Religion? Was I prudish? How could I answer that when I asked myself the same question day after day?

I wasn't the blushing innocent the title of virgin dictates. My showerhead and I had had something strong going on for the better part of a decade. We had been considering inviting a beautiful marble blue waterproof vibrator to spice up our sexlesslife, but the thought of losing my virginity that way was such a disappointment, it caused me to put the package down and leave the store empty handed every time.

No, when I lost my virginity, I wanted it to be to a person. I do love my evening shower, and I do love myself, but when you're controlling the thing, you know what to expect. In my mind, that would take some of the zing out of the pleasure. I didn't want predictable movement and four speeds of vibrating tearing down my wall. I wanted something pulsing, something hot, something growing, and something I couldn't control.

When I explained this to my friend Eddie, she asked if I meant a rape fantasy. I shuddered and said no way in hell. Just another person. After all, I'm not the one holding him and leading him in and making every single movement. He is. He may shudder or jolt or suddenly pull out. He could throb when I least expect it. He would grow when I squeezed my walls around him. That's what I meant.

Eddie and I met every Friday morning for breakfast. She was the only one of my friends who knew my sad secret, because she was the only one with whom I talked about sex (or lack thereof). We met at a bar one evening while she was getting pissy about not being able to find a bedpartner, and I was trying to ward off the advances of a sleazy man three times my age. She walked up to me, kissed me full on the mouth, told the guy to quit scamming on her lady, and bought me about five drinks.

We talked...oh, about a lot of stuff that night, mostly about sex, since I was sauced. Not wanting her to think I was a complete and utter loser, I told her about some of my shower fantasies, trying to pass them off as my real life experiences. She was impressed, which is saying something for Eddie.

At the end of the night, thoroughly trashed, I fessed up that I was still a virgin and burst into tears. She thought that was adorable and decided to adopt me as her pet horny virgin.

And so, thus began our weekly breakfasts. Every Friday, I got up two hours earlier and rode the train all the way across town to her place, where we'd meet. I didn't so much mind the travel, even if I did have to go so far out of my way. Given the context of our conversation, I was more comfortable being away from places I lived and worked.

Eddie would encourage me to share my fantasies with her. She loved my fantasies, she said, because being a virgin gave my imagination freer reign. The reality of sex wasn't as colorful as my imagining of it. And let's not forget all the risks of the actual act, especially the way I imagined it. Unprotected, as many of my fantasies were spontaneous acts, often with strangers, often in public, sex was dangerous. There was pregnancy, STDs, AIDS, just filth in general. In my shower, my lovely clean shower, I was safe from the possible repercussions of sex.

When I told Eddie about my dissatisfaction with the impending milestone, she asked why I didn't just go down to a little place she knew of and pay for an hour or two. She also offered to hook me up with one of her past bed partners, but I declined. I wanted my first time to be something to remember, not just some desperate last resort.

The train was relatively empty as I stepped on, the sky dark and the passengers glassy-eyed, if even open-eyed. It was a long ride to the other side of the city. Some of the passengers I recognized as night workers returning home from the graveyard shift.

I yawned myself and slid into a seat, my legs almost collapsing underneath me. Determined to keep myself awake, I pulled out a collection of erotica and flipped to a random story. It was sort of fun to read these bawdy stories in public, especially right before meeting with Eddie. It made me feel daring, the way Eddie made me feel, as close to my shower fantasy persona as I ever felt I could become.

By the time the train arrived at my stop, the combination of the stories and the friction of the train's wheels on the tracks had made me breathless and weak. I knew that my face appeared a little flushed, and I smiled inwardly as I slipped my book into my purse and exited the train, amazed that I hadn't left a small puddle. I wondered if the back of my skirt was damp. I decided I would let my imagination answer for me.

As I headed for breakfast, I felt the morning air chill the wet spots on the inside of my thighs. This had happened a few times before and I knew that my panties would be sopping wet. As long as my body heat was warming the wetness in the fabric, they would be comfortable, but the moment I removed them to use the bathroom, the chill of the air would turn them cold and uncomfortable, leaving me with a disgusting feeling. On days like this, I removed my underwear.

After a quick detour to the bathroom, where I wiped the moister from my thighs, baby powdered the spots, ziplocked my panties, and stowed them in a secret pocket I'd sewn into my purse, I rushed to the restaurant to meet Eddie, knowing I'd be late.

As I'd expected, she was already seated at a table with a large glass of milk. I had checked in the bathroom mirror, and the flush in my face was very low by now, but I knew that she would notice it. And I was right. She took one look at my face and smirked.

"Have a fun train ride?"

"I was reading," I tell her, sliding into my seat. The back of my skirt still had a small damp spot and it sent goose-bumps up my spine.

"You know," she said matter-of-factly, "you should write down your fantasies. They're a hell of a lot better than some of the ones they publish in those anthologies."

"How about if I just write a book for you," I ask, "and you can be the one and only owner of the most fabulous erotica in the world."

Eddie seemed to consider that for a moment. "You know, that sounds tempting enough, I may just take you up on that offer."

"I'll get to work on it over lunch."

"So, you're only a week away from the big day," she reminded me, picking up her milk and taking a healthy sip (she had been trying to get me to drink more, swearing it would make my breasts bigger, but I said B was just fine with me, thanks).

"Yeah, don't remind me," I mumbled, perusing the menu. The waiter, who had been on his way to take our order, saw that and prepared to step away, giving us more time.

"Oh no you don't, hot pants," Eddie called over to him and waved him over. "If she takes her time, that just means I get more time to gawk."

Eddie wasn't usually so brash with the staff, but this being our usual breakfast place, and the waiter taking things all in stride, she let herself be a little more up front with him.

"Just as long as she doesn't take too long," he replied, taking a notepad and pen from his apron and flipping to a fresh page. "Remember, you do have to share."

"Just the way I like it," Eddie replied, winking up at him. Then, half to me, half to him, she said, "Don't you sometimes wish the dining room would become one great big orgy?"

"You've been reading my private journal," I teasingly accused.

"Hey, how 'bout it? A breakfast orgy for your first time?"

"Shush!" I hissed, slapping my hand over her mouth and making a very audible smack. At a hesitant glance, I saw that the waiter was looking down at me, partially in disbelief.

"French toast," I said pointedly, "sausage links, a cup of fruit, and a large—"

"Milk!" Eddie called, ripping my hand off her face. There was a red mark all around her lips. "She wants milk, give the woman milk!"

"Chocolate," I added, scowling at her. "If it's milk I'm getting, make it chocolate. I may as well enjoy getting busty."

"That's my girl!" I felt a healthy slap on my behind and quickly plopped down into my seat again, the sharp sting reminding me that my seat was still damp from my wet-ride.

I clamped my lips shut as Eddie ordered her healthy-sized breakfast and slapped the waiter's butt on his way back to the kitchen to put in our order. Once he was out of earshot, I leaned forward in my seat.

"Did you have to go and tell him I'm a virgin?" I hissed.

"Oh come on," she laughed. "What's so bad about it?"

"I'm thirty! I'm thirty and I've never had sex!"

She waved it off. "So what. Let me tell you something, once you've had it, it's torture going without it."

"Like that means anything," I mumbled. "I've never had it and it's torture going without it."

"So? What're you gonna do about it?" She leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. "You sure you don't want me to introduce you to one of my bed bugs?"

"I'm sure."

I watched a sly look overcome her face. "Or we could ask the waiter for a favor. I think he'd be up for it."

"Eddie," I hiss, "don't you dare!"

Eddie laughs. "Well hell, why not? He's hot, and don't try to lie and tell me you haven't picture his tongue on you while you and your showerhead make out."

"He's going to think I'm desperate," I tell her, "and I told you, I want my first time to be special."

"So what do you have in mind?" she asked. "Candles? Roses? Bubblebath?"

"Smarmy sax music, the works," I finished with a roll of my eyes.

"So? One of your fantasies?" she asks, leaning forward again.

I let out a snort. "Let's be realistic here."

"Let's not," she said, smirking. "Would you? If you had the opportunity and you didn't have to worry about getting knocked up or catching something, would you?"

I felt a little wary about the question, God only knows why. It isn't as if she was being serious. This was just a hypothetical question, so I gave my hypothetical answer.

"Yeah."

Her smirk broke out into a full-blown grin and she raised her milk just as my chocolate milk arrived. The waiter toasted her with it for me.

"That's my girl! Hell yeah!"

"Are you done toasting to my hypothetical sluttiness?" I asked, shifting a little and feeling the backs of my still slightly damp thighs stick to the seat. It stung a little as I tried to free my skin. I decided to leave it alone. I'd rip my leg from the chair after breakfast.

"Oh no, no, no, not sluttiness," Eddie corrected, clicking her tongue. "Adventurousness, yes. Sluttiness, no."

"What is this about..." the waiter asked, trailing off. He obviously didn't want to say the word at his place of work, but he didn't need to.

"Nothing," I said, pointedly looking at Eddie.

"Nothing," she repeated and then added, "but I sure wish it was something."

I retrieved my milk (chocolate) from the waiter and took a nice, long drink, not trusting myself to respond. If I wanted to be honest with myself, I did secretly wish one of my fantasies could come true, though I knew I'd end up balking at the opportunity.

Forty-five minutes later found me standing at the train station, the backs of my legs stinging from the abuse they had taken from the chair. I tried as stealthily as I could to rub the discomfort away without being noticed. It served me right, I guess, getting off on the train like that. I knew better. The train was no place for that sort of thing. How would I feel if I sat in a weird cold puddle on a train?

The crowd at the station allowed me plenty of cover, but I was only given a few minutes before the train arrived and the unusually large mass of people moved forward, sweeping me with it. I normally don't like standing for so long, but given the train ride to breakfast, I realized that sitting on the way back would put me in another rather awkward situation, anyway.

We all crammed ourselves into the waiting compartment and there was a jostling as younger people stood for older or injured passengers. I was knocked into a few times, sometimes being turned or steered by a hand on my elbow as others tried to find a comfortable spot in which to stand for the next twenty minutes. I barely had a chance to recover from the last steer before our positions were slightly upset by the train's departure.

There was only one problem with standing in a moving train in the middle of a tight crowd of people: friction. The skirts and pants and briefcases and purses all around me rubbed at me, exciting small parts of my body. I became aware, too, that I was rubbing up against other people and exciting them as well, or more pointedly, him. Behind me.

He was slightly off-center, slightly away, but I could tell that my butt's rubbing against the top of his thigh was having a rather embarrassing effect on him. I had started to notice the strain of the fabric of his pants against my skin.

It was then I noticed that I was feeling the fabric against my skin, and not through my skirt. I reached one hand behind to grab for my hem, but as I was pulling my butt forward to access the hem discreetly, I felt a hand brush my fingertips.

I froze, caught, and wondered what I was going to do if he thought I was going for a feel. We stood rocking, suspended in shock, until there was another movement of the fingers and a piece of paper was placed into my hand.

A note? What the hell? Was he using it as a way to communicate? My mind went wild with scenarios, of a covert swap of information, of a stranger liking the job my ass was doing on his cock and slipping me his number, of a blackmail note, threatening to tell my bosses that I got off on trains.

My heart pounded and I stayed completely still. Then the strange fingers cupped mine and closed, curling my fingers in to grasp the crumpled piece of paper. Very carefully, I managed to work my hand to the front of me and raise it without groping any of my fellow riders. I could still feel the tightening fabric against my cheek.

By the time I had raised the note to within my sight and uncrumpled it, he had turned the smallest bit and I could feel the erection. I let out a shallow breath and focused on the note, which carried with it the faint smell of hand sanitizer.

Am I awesome or what? Enjoy your birthday present, but keep it in the wrapping.

Eddie

Birthday present? What the hell did she mean? And wrapping?

As soon as I had lowered the note, I felt a pair of hands from behind me take my hips with a slight pressure, encouraging me to lean back. But I stayed frozen. We were in public. This was real. This was a stranger! I wasn't about to let some guy I didn't know have his way with me in public.

I started to look around me in a panic, for some way out. I could feel my heart in my stomach, in my neck, between my legs. My breathing was dangerously close to becoming hyperventilating. And then I noticed a trickle run down the inside of one thigh.

I took in a shallow breath and swallowed. Then, very slowly, Eddie's note in one hand, the other worked its way behind me, and reached back. It was met by, unmistakably, a penis. But though I had never actually seen or felt a penis before, it felt much more rubbery than I had been expecting. Cautiously I worked down the exposed phallus until I came to the base, where I felt a small ring, surrounded by hair, surrounded by zipper.

Keep it in wrapping. The words returned to me. I clenched the note in my hand, realizing what this all meant. Eddie had arranged a fantasy for me, for my very first time, and she had taken precautions. It was undoubtedly her handwriting on the note. She had asked me earlier if I would go through with it if one of my fantasies were presented to me. I had answered in the affirmative, though I had taken it all as jest.

But this wasn't a joke and this wasn't just idle talk. This was actually happening, surrounded by people who could turn us in for public exposure. I wasn't going to do this! But...

There was no denying that I was turned on by it. The first line of drool was followed by a second, as my lips could no longer hold in the pool building between my legs. No, I wasn't going to balk. I was going to enjoy this. I just had to be especially careful.

I released him and slowly loosened my resistance to his hands, letting them guide me back. The fingers dipped in the groove at the top front of my thighs, rubbing, and the thumbs went to the top of my cheeks, slowly drawing up my skirt.

And then I felt him. His hard, wrapped penis found the crack between my cheeks, but it stuck. I felt his thumbs tuck under the waistline of my skirt, tucking in the hem, and then his fingers slid forward, taking hold of my thighs, right before they met. They slipped further in between. I felt his chest on my shoulder as he reached, and smelt the refreshing musk of freshly washed hair and scrubbed skin. I closed my eyes and breathed in as quietly as possible just as he spread me.

My stomach flipped and my nerves became keen and vibrant. He shifted the slightest bit behind me and, as I turned my heels out to help him spread me, his head found one of the trails dripping down my leg. It moved in a small circle, gathering lubrication and shooting jolts of pleasure through me. I felt more drip from me and one of the fingers spreading me dipped down, finding a trail and gathering it.

His skin slipped against mine, the contact slick and seductive. I shivered. His finger trailed up and down. The path was short but seemed so long in the confined space and situation. He felt my shudder, I could tell, because he gathered more of the moisture and moved the tip of his finger between my legs. The hair on my swollen and sensitive lips felt his touch first, and just that small contact was so intense I almost blew our cover by gasping.

I swallowed and looked around us. Our fellow passengers all had that look people so often adopt when commuting, the look that means they're intent on not acknowledging the crowd they're in. It served us just fine, as anybody choosing to take a look around was sure to notice my glazed eyes and flushed face. It seemed all I had to do was not make a sound and I'd be just fine.

The finger caressed the tips of the hairs, teasing me and making me ooze more onto his head and a second finger. Then finally, he had mercy on me and dipped his finger into my hair, finding the edge of my swollen lips. I caught the gasp in my throat and felt my hips move forward, jostling his head against my leg and his fingers against me.

I felt him move forward to the edge of my hungry mouth and paused. The rocking of the train worked his finger into the crevice. My entire body whimpered, every part but my throat. The slight convulsion, the shiver, did what my voice wasn't allowed. It begged him for more.

As his fingers slid back, my lips parted easily. I smelled above the chaos of aftershave and leather and perfume, the unmistakably thick scent of my arousal. Did he smell it? Was he getting off on it? As his finger slipped my lips apart and played with my dripping tongue, I imagined his hand filling with the lust pouring from me.

My chest almost hurt keeping the moans and whimpers inside, but nothing hurt more than the aching between my legs, like the pain from the thought of a lemon's tart pucker. I wanted him to touch me and fill me and break through the aching. But I could beg no more than I could moan.

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