tagMind ControlNight Train

Night Train


You are not surprised that the car is empty on this, the last subway train of the night. You are used to travelling home alone this late at night.

You have been out on your usual Friday night prowl, hitting the bars. There were lots of guys out tonight and you only had to pay for your first drink. After that there were no shortage of men (and a few women) who were only too happy to oblige the little blonde in the red dress. Too bad that none of them seemed good enough to take you home. You have learned from experience that only the best are capable of giving you what you want. As highly sexed as you are, you know that you can have a better time by yourself (with a few toys) than you can with any of the fumbling young boys who are so eager to get you drunk and into the back seat of their daddy's Caddy. You have no time for amateurs. You took the drinks, but car sex is for kids. You are twenty now, a woman, and you gave up screwing in Chevys and Dodges when you got your own place three years ago. The drinks were fine, though, and they kept coming. It would have been rude to turn them down and although you can hold your liquor like a stevedore, you have had more than a few and you know it.

You don't mind that you are alone on the subway car. The past four or five hours have been spent artfully deflecting the attention of over-eager young men through the haze of increasing inebriation and the clamour of honky-tonk bars. It feels good to sit alone in the relative quiet of the subway and relax your mind and body. But your solitude does not endure for long. The train stops, the doors slide open and a man gets on. The doors close and the train moves off again.

The man does not look around, but walks directly to the seat opposite yours. You are facing the front of the car, he the back. His knees almost touch yours. Shit. Out of fifty or a hundred seats on the car, he has chosen to invade your space. He sits down and looks at you. This is no surprise; men have been looking at you all night.

You have dressed so that they will be compelled to look at you. You are wearing a very simple dress of your own design. It is simply a tube of stretchy material that is just as easy to step out of as it is to step in to. Folded double above your breasts, it is strapless; all that holds it up is the snugness of its fit as it embraces your body. It hugs every curve and shows off the firmness of your ass and the flatness and definition of your belly. And your tits, of course. It is good that your tits are large and firm. If they were not, you would have to keep tugging the dress up, and you would hate to look like you were playing some kind of dopey teenage flirtation game.

The dress is short enough to show off your smooth, firm legs. Short enough to make those legs appear longer. Short enough that you have to be careful how you sit. Short enough to attract all the attention you need. But not so short as to reveal the tattoo on your ass, the tattoo of a broken heart. On your feet are black high-heeled pumps. They exaggerate the muscles of your legs and ass. They contribute not only to the illusion of longer legs, but give you four extra inches of height, which you know you can use. You call these shoes Joan-Crawford-Fuck-Me-Pumps. (Does everybody?) Your black leather biker jacket shows anyone that might be fooled by your baby-face that you are a woman who can handle herself.

Too bad the damned thing is so big. You wear it over your shoulders to make its size less obvious. You have night-time makeup on. A bit too much, maybe, but it helps to make you look less like a kid. Besides, the bars you go to are dark. The bright shiny red of your lips is exactly duplicated on your fingernails. You look good, really good, and you know it. Your scent is a musk, originally intended for men. You wear it because three years ago your first landlord, the first man you ever slept with more than once, simply said; "It smells like sex". You know that your look is exactly what you want it to be. You are small and very feminine but you are as tough as you need to be. And then some.

So let this asshole look if he wants to. At first you ignore him. Maybe he will bugger off and leave you alone. But after a while, you can no longer look out the window at the blackness of the subway tunnel rushing past. You look at the man. Maybe you can stare him down.

He is wearing brown boots, kind of like cowboy boots but with square toes and lower heels. Motorcycle boots maybe. Well worn jeans. The kind with brass buttons instead of a zipper at the fly. Tight, too, and you cannot help notice the nice big bulge in the crotch. A black leather motorcycle jacket. Like you own, but his fits him properly. A plain white T-shirt underneath, tight across his chest. He is clean-shaven with blond hair. His face seems to be formed of all straight lines; no curves. He wouldn't be bad looking except for his eyes. His eyes have almost no colour at all. They are the colour of snow high up in the mountains and in shadow. Snow that is white, of course, but that seems to be blue. His eyes seem to have no colour, but of course they must be blue. But a clear, crystal blue. If he had bought you a drink or two at around midnight, and it hadn't been for those eyes, then who knows what might have happened. But those eyes are too much. They are not frightening, but only because you do not let yourself get frightened by that sort of crap. Between the hair and the eyes, he looks Scandinavian or something. Aryan maybe.

After you have been staring back at him for a while, you realise that he is not looking at your body, just at your face. There is a first time for everything. Most guys spend most of their time looking at your tits, legs or ass, depending on their personal preference. But not this guy. He just stares dispassionately at your face. And he doesn't blink. He seems like some kind of machine.

He makes you nervous. Not that you would ever admit that, even to yourself. But nobody, man or woman, has ever stared at you the way he does. It makes you squirm. You look away, back out the window again. You can see his reflection in the glass. Does he know that you are watching him? Maybe he will behave like a normal guy and steal a glance at your tits or your crotch while he thinks that you are not looking. Then you'll be the one in control, as you should be. But no, he just stares. Against your will, you shift your ass around on the seat.

This has the unfortunate effect of riding your dress up your legs. You cannot even tell how far up without looking. And if he isn't going to look, you'll be damned if you will. Damn. It's one thing to play peek-a-boo with some guy in a bar. That's just to establish who is pursuing whom; who has the control. But it's another thing altogether to have your quim hanging out in front of some maniac who does not even have the common decency to look. And you can't just push it down. The last thing you want to do is look coy. You cross your legs. Your dress rides up further. Damn.

You look back at the man. Maybe you can break his eye contact with your own. But no. That does not work any better this time than it did the first time. You look down.

But wait. There in his crotch, the bulge is bigger. Firmer, too. Now you can definitely see the outline of his dick under his jeans. His balls, too. Maybe this situation is not so out of control as it seems. You look back into the window to see if you can see the reflection of his crotch. You can. You become aware that you are sweating. Never mind. You can rattle this bastard's cage yet.

You uncross your legs. Even if you were not exposed before, you certainly are now. You know exactly what he can see; you have chosen your under-garment as carefully as you have chosen the rest of your clothing. It is a very brief g-string made of black lace so thin and fine that while it is clearly visible against your pale skin, at the same time it hides nothing. You have even removed the cotton panel that was in the crotch. Your pussy breathes better this way and has a much more appealing aroma and flavour. (A little trick that you learned from your one female lover.) You look at his reflection in the window. He still has not taken his eyes from yours. Very well. You know that with your legs held close together the man can see only the narrow triangle of your panties and the wisps of hair covering your pubic mound. You know how to make this bastard look. Gently and slowly you increase the distance between your knees, being careful to make it appear unconscious, as though only the movement of the train were responsible. As your knees open, the hem of your dress rides further and further up your thighs.

Tension in your mind has made your skin hyper-sensitive and you can feel the fabric rub like sandpaper. You watch the reflection of his face in the window carefully, looking for the reaction that is sure to follow. But no. Jesus, do beautiful blondes flash this guy on subways every night? You watch the reflection of his eyes as carefully as a man disarming a bomb. He must react. But no. Just the same steely blue gaze. Your legs are open wide; your dress is almost to your waist. You are as fully exposed as the silk of your panties permits. You up the ante by moving your hand to your crotch; perhaps the movement will catch his eye. As your hand touches your pussy and you feel your own wetness, you realise that perhaps you have invested more into this situation than you had intended. Never mind. After coming this far, you can not let him win now. You draw the fabric of your panties aside.

If, last night or earlier this evening, somebody had told you that you would be masturbating in front of a stranger on a subway train just so that you could make him look away from your eyes, you would have told that person that his mind was gone. But now, the next step comes so surprisingly easy. You stare hard into the stranger's bottomless eyes, bring the middle finger of your right hand to your lips and suck it deep into your mouth. Then, looking down upon your exposed nakedness, you slide that same finger slowly and deliberately all the way into your quim. Then, with your left hand, you home in on your clit, stroking it up and out for the stranger to see. An involuntary muscular spasm radiates from your centre up through your belly to your shoulders, arms, and to your fingers. And from your thighs all the way down to curl your toes. As if in a dream, you spread your knees as far as you can and lift your feet to place them on the seat opposite you, on either side of the stranger.

He can see more than your panties and your mound now. He can see the white skin of your lips and the deep pink of the inner folds of your cunt. He can see the sheen of your juices flowing from your quim onto your thighs. He can see your fingers diving deep into your slit. He can see your nipples standing up proud from the thin material of your dress, becoming more and more erect with each breath that rubs them against the fabric. He can see your clit, as red as the nail polish on the fingertips that stroke, rub and pinch it. As red as the blood it is engorged with. He could see it all. If only he would look.

But look there. Finally, you are winning. The stranger is still staring at your face, but you can see that his cock is growing in his pants. It is becoming longer, thicker and harder. Nice, big cock, you think. It can't be long now before he is forced to pay as much attention to what you are doing as you are. But the tension and the passion are conspiring against you. What began as an exercise in power and control is taking on a life of its own. You try to separate your mind from your body, but find it impossible. Your heartbeat becomes faster and your breath rasping and ragged as you watch the stranger's erection grow.

Are you really winning? He still has eyes only for your face. As you tug your dress down from your breasts you try to convince yourself that it is for his benefit. You take advantage of these newly exposed weapons in your conflict, pinching and pulling your nipples. And it feels good, really good. You are staring at his crotch as hard as he is staring at your own eyes now, and when you see a drop of his lubricant seep from his cock and darken the fabric of his jeans, you can control yourself no longer. Your orgasm carries you away utterly. You are not aware if you call out or scream, if you thrash about or any other thing that would be told to you by your senses. You are only aware of the crushing, consuming climax of tension followed by the warm glow radiating out from your cunt to every cell, every pore, every nerve in your body.

After awhile (you are not sure how long), you catch your breath and look up. The man is still there. As soon as your eyes come up, his gaze is again locks onto them. His expression has changed. He is no longer so distant, but looks at you with a smile that is kind and concerned...or amused and condescending. All right you bastard, you think, I'll teach you to ignore me when I put on a show like that for you.

His erection is still clearly outlined in his jeans. You slide to the floor, tear open the buttons of his fly with as much force as you have left and without hesitation you suck his cock into your mouth. You are good at this and you know it. You were taught by a master (the landlord's wife) and have refined your technique for almost five years. You can get all but the thickest cocks down your throat and you love the taste of semen. Swallowing is not a chore for you, it is a pleasure. Maybe it's all those extra hormones you swallow that make you like to screw so much. The way you suck, if this guy does not respond, he must be made of wood.

Sex is power. Power is sex. There is no act of sex that proves this as much as the one you are now engaged in. Any man who believes that he has control over the woman who is sucking him is a fool. In this act alone the woman controls the pace and the pressure, the teasing and tension, the pleasure and even the pain. These are the reasons you like so much to suck.

But if the power is for you, the pleasure is not all for him. After giving his balls a squeeze and the head of his penis a bite (just to make sure you have his attention) you reach down to again stroke and caress your pussy. You love every sensation that is yours when you suck. The musky taste of his dick mixes with the leftover flavour of cheap vodka on your breath. The smell of his crotch would be offensive anywhere else, but you have learned to associate that aroma with pleasure and power.

To you it is sweeter perfume than Chânel. The hardness of his cock is well known to you, as is the softer river underneath. It is through this river that his semen will flow, flooding your mouth in a torrent of sweet, salty, stickiness. His hardness reaches all the way to your throat almost, but not quite, making you gag. You never suck gently. Your style is to give (and take) everything that you can. You suck, you squeeze, you bite. You stroke his cock in your fist while sucking his balls. And you do yourself with all the energy and heat that you do him. Your knees are spread for balance as the train rocks and sways, and to open your quim with your probings and pinchings as you make love to yourself with your hands.

You look up at him, and he looks down at you. How can this bastard do it? He's getting a blowjob that no two women could deliver, and he looks like he's reading the funnies. You bear down harder on his cock and begin to snake the middle finger of your right hand toward his anus. With that, his dick begins to pulse in your mouth. The place, the time, the scene (and your hands up your pussy) have all brought you to the brink of control again. And the increased pressure in your throat is more than you can bear.

You grab the wisp of silk covering your crotch and rip it away. The satin ribbons about your hips bite into your skin but you don't notice or care. You climb his body like a mountain and grasp his cock, dripping with your saliva, aim it at your cunt and impale yourself upon it. Your knees are on the seat on either side of him as you ride him, up and down, harder and faster. You feel that the train itself is fucking you as the subway car shudders and groans, the brakes act to draw the pillar of flesh from your quim and then fills you up again as the car accelerates. As the train stops at another station and the car screeches to a stop you do not think that you can resist the orgasm that is so near. The doors of the car open and the rush of cool night air caresses your nipples into stark missiles of erect flesh. It is as well that no other passengers get on. You could not stop if you wanted to, and you do not want to.

It is not the train that you want to fuck you. It is him whom you want to fuck. You want to feel thrusting into you, stroking into you as you stroke onto him. You want to feel his hands on your ass, his fingernails cutting into your flesh. You want his lips on your neck, his teeth on your tits, his tongue in your mouth. You want him to fuck you as hard as you are fucking him.

With no more warning than an enormous pulse of his enormous cock, he unloads inside you. You feel his semen spurting inside you not with your cunt, but with your guts, your heart, your soul. You milk his cock with the muscles of your pussy, drawing every bit of him into you, wanting all of him. You have not come, but you do not care. You climb off his body and again take him into your mouth. You want to taste his the juices of his cock, seasoned with those of your sex. Even as his come seeps from your quim and oozes down your thighs, you lick and suck every drop from him. Only as you taste the last bit of come to escape his penis do you collapse in orgasm.

And that is how he leaves you; sitting bare-assed on the floor of that last subway train of the night. The hem of your dress is drawn up to your trim waist, where you have pulled it so you could see his cock invading your cunt. Your breasts are exposed to the cold night air, your chest heaving with the exhaustion of your climax, glistening with the sweat of your passion. Your nipples are soft now in your post orgasm glow. He walks slowly toward the exit. Perhaps he is encouraging you to come with him. As if you could. He stops at the door; turns for one last look and says "You have the most beautiful face I have ever seen. You steal my heart away." Then he is gone.

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byZachary© 3 comments/ 114027 views/ 11 favorites

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