Riding Coach

Two and a half weeks after being invited, Paul perused the carefully wedged ticket on a large billboard by the entrance to Metro Center, the ticket identifying the time and location of the next meeting. It was for two weeks from now. The gentleman had said that the meetings were not frequent and were announced well in advance so that everyone who wished to attend could adjust their schedules.

It was not a train that he normally rode. In fact, he would have to take a very early train out of Memorial Park (where he lived) and go past Highland Park (where he worked) to Union Station, and then switch to the Red Line to get to Metro Center, and then switch to the Blue Line to get on the designated train. He would be well late for work by the time he did all that and then retrace his steps back to Highland Park. And, it was an even pretty extensive route along the Blue Line, all the way down to Anaheim. The game, of course, needed long rides to be optimally successful.

Paul's heart was racing as he contemplated taking the ride. He would be late for work, considerably late, but his cock swelled in his pants, and it led him on that day to central station.

When he arrived at Metro Center and took his place on the platform to wait for the Blue Line run down to Anaheim, he didn't see the gentleman, nor did he see the woman. He counted the number of cars as the train arrived, and got on the third one, as the ticket had indicated, wondering if this perhaps had all been some sort of ruse on the gentleman's part, a joke he had been playing, or a con he had pulled to avoid being turned into security. Perhaps the gentleman was now long gone. Paul's cock shrunk as he could feel the disappointment, and embarrassment, at having been so readily fooled. He felt himself being pushed deeper and deeper into the car. He would now be terribly late for work, and for no real good reason. He ruefully felt the train pull away.

He sighed deeply with frustration, realizing that he would now have to suffer even more uncomfortable crowding in this day's commute to work, having to first ride this train all the way to the next stop and back again.

"Excuse me, I'm so sorry," she said, as she pushed, or more accurately, squeezed and crammed her way in between him and the window.

He preferred to stand by a window, as it did help somewhat with the claustrophobic crowding.

She said, "I so much prefer the window, it does at least help with the claustrophobic crowding, don't you think?"

He thought, 'Yes, I do very much think that, which is why I was there before you squeezed me out of the way, thank you very much,' but he just smiled, politely. She was at least attractive. He knew it was sexist, and wrong, to realize that his reaction would have been much worse if she was unattractive, but it was true that attractive persons do tend to get away with a number of things. He sighed deeply.

The train lurched as it departed, and he felt his crotch bump hard against her bottom. "Excuse me," he said, and tried to move back, but the man behind him had moved forward, and he really didn't want the man's crotch cramming into his own butt.

The pretty woman looked back at him, smiled sweetly, and replied, "Don't worry."

He smiled back but quickly looked away.

He could not but think of his talk with the gentleman, and the notion that there were persons on trains who actively pursued this sort of frotteurism, and how nice it might be to attempt such a thing with this very appealing woman. She did have a nice soft, round, perky bottom, one that did feel rather nice against his crotch.

His heart raced as he contemplated actually trying it, trying to get away with fondling this woman on a public train, and then quickly regained his self-control when he realized how dangerous such an activity really could be, would be. Imagine being arrested and offering in your defense that there had been an elder gentleman that told you of a club of willing participants.

It didn't help though when he felt the woman's bottom rubbing against him.

The train was naturally jolting left and right as it rumbled along. Nobody could actually stand perfectly still, but it didn't feel like this woman was even trying to remain stationary. Rather than trying to avoid rubbing her butt against him she in fact seemed to be pressing her butt into him, and even softly grinding against him in a manner that really did appear to be quite independent of the movements of the train.

Normally he would politely back away, assuming that there was in fact no intention behind her movements, wishing to avoid any embarrassing, awkward confrontation. But, he was now intrigued by the possibility that such an experience might in fact be possible. He would at least not actively resist, and possibly passively participate. So he stood his ground, and enjoyed the innocent, subtle lap dance, which was really quite nice as she was wearing a rather loose (and short) cotton skirt. He was himself wearing loose boxers, and so there was really very little in between them.

It did not take him long to respond. Any normal healthy male would respond to a lap dance, even one being provided by a woman wearing a skirt, perhaps even more so when it is being provided on a public train, by a perfect stranger, and a rather pretty one with a very delectably round soft petite tush.

However, with his growing erection he felt that he should probably back away. A flirtatious wiggling of her bottom against him doesn't mean that she really wants to have his hard dick stuck up against her butt, and there was nothing innocent about an erection. He started to shift his body to the right so that it would be his hip pressed up against her bottom, rather than his crotch, but before he could move she apparently dropped something as she bent over to pick it up.

Bending over to pick something up on one of these grossly crowded trains was always a difficult exercise. He would often simply ignore the loss of some change or a pen rather than struggle with squeezing through legs and reaching around on the dirty floor. He did enjoy observing the occasional fall of a someone else's cell phone, and was sorely tempted once to "accidentally" step on one that fell close to his feet, or at least "accidentally" kick it away.

In any case, as this woman reached for whatever she seemed to have dropped, she forcefully, perhaps even lewdly, thrust her bottom hard into his crotch. If he had been a gentleman he would have given her more room, if he had any room to give. If they had been naked, the implication would have been clear. Actually, if they had been naked there would have been no implication. It would have been quite explicit what she was requesting of this buck in the herd on the train.

Paul's dick swelled to new heights and his boxers provided considerable room and comfort for the growth of his cock. There had to be little doubt that she could feel his stiffness through her skirt as her upraised bottom pressed and wiggled against his stiff dick, now quite explicitly poking out his slacks.

Paul recalled the first time he got a real full contact lap dance. He had been concerned that the girls would be offended by his erection, that it was the male's job, his courtesy, at a strip club not to become aroused, not to debase the stripper by losing control of himself and forcing her to make contact with an erection.

But, on the contrary, the girl appeared to be delighted by its presence, and thereafter focused much of her attention on the bulge, using her bottom and her breasts, and sometimes even her fingers and lips, to keep it going, encouraging it to get stiffer and stiffer and stiffer, more and more excited, until, as she said, he had a "happy ending" to her dance.

Needless to say, he left the club with a quite noticeable wet stain in his pants. The next time he came (literally) prepared, wearing a sweater that fell down over his crotch to hide any such effect. Plus, of course, he wore looser clothes. However, he also discovered that the girls varied tremendously in how much they were willing to do. He only rarely found a girl who would use her hand, and the ones who used their mouths would stay there only briefly. He typically got off through the rubbing of breasts or bottom, but that was always still pretty darned nice. It was at times quite difficult though to tell who was willing to provide him with a happy ending and who simply provided air dances. Even the air dancing girls would try to get him into the VIP room, suggesting that they would do much more but never really explicitly indicating what that might be.

Well, at the moment, this woman's body language did appear to suggest a willingness to provide a happy ending.

As she stood back up she looked back at him, her face a little flushed, and said, "My keys, can't lose those."

"No, no," he replied, his face also reddening, realizing that perhaps he might in fact have misunderstood after all.

His heart was racing. What was he supposed to do now? He knew what he would like to do. What he would like to do was to pull out his stiff cock, lift up her skirt, pull down her panties, bend her over, and drive his dick up her tight, wet cunt. But, he suspected that would probably be going too far. Heck, one couldn't even do that at a gentleman's club, even in the VIP rooms. What is the polite, correct move at this point? Emily Post never offered any advice about this.

Nor did it help clarify matters that when she stood back up she twisted around, jostling shoulders against arms, to turn to face him, her breasts rising up as she reached up to hold onto the steel bar above them. She was only a bit shorter than him, and her pretty brown eyes, sparkling beneath her fluttering lashes, looked gaily directly into his. "I think this is a bit more comfortable, don't you?" "Yes, yes," he clumsily replied, feeling now very confused. It wasn't really more comfortable and, frankly, he missed the soft touch of her round bottom. Clearly her soft tush was no longer an option.

"Here," she said, reaching out with her left hand to take hold of his briefcase. "You only have two hands, you know." She dropped it down in between her legs, and his. "If you want it, you can reach down and get it."

Paul could feel a rising anxiety. Apparently he was supposed to initiate the action. That was what she was saying, wasn't it? Still, though, she didn't actually say 'Touch me,' and this was a communication that one didn't want to misinterpret. It was like being at a strip club where some proportion of the girls aren't strippers and you're supposed to figure out how to get a lap dance without explicitly asking? How would that work?

He hesitated. It was one thing to be the passive recipient in the game, the club, or whatever it was. It was quite another to be the active member, to be the one who initiated the action. Actually, he hadn't really initiated the action. If it wasn't for her, nothing would have happened at all. He couldn't imagine actually initiating such an activity cold, with no obvious sign that it would be welcomed. If he did anything he would be the one who looked like he was fondling, accosting, molesting, someone on the train.

She slid up closer to him, pressing her soft round breasts against his chest. "Hurry," she whispered, "I'm getting off in two stops."

She was right. He really shouldn't waste any time.

He took hold of the steel bar with his right hand and let go with his left. He would usually use his right hand for something like this, but his left hand, his left side, was more hidden from view.

As he brought his hand down he let it lightly, briefly, brush along her right breast.

She smiled and sighed as she felt the momentary contact with her breast.

He drew his hand further down her body, his eyes fixed on hers, watching for any sign that he was stepping out of line. When he reached the front of her skirt, he stopped, and rested his hand there, against her thigh.

The expression in her eyes shifted from a twinkling flirtation to an anxious apprehension. She asked, "Oh my goodness, sir, do you know where your fingers are?"

He experienced a brief moment of doubt, of uncertainty, but it went away as quickly as it had come. "I am sorry," he calmly responded, as calm as he could feel under the circumstances, "it is a bit crowded today."

"Your hand, sir," she responded, "please, your fingers." She spoke very softly, "You're touching my thigh."

"I am sorry," he replied. He moved his hand, but he in fact shifted more to the right, to the front of her skirt, so that his fingers were now pressed against the soft rise of her mound, through her skirt and panties.

"Please, sir!" She admonished, her eyes opening wide in shock. Speaking quite softly, so that only his ears would be aware, "You are obviously no gentleman."

No, he certainly was not. Paul looked briefly around. They were against the windows to his left, and she was pressed up close enough to him that only the person to his right could really see the location and movements of his hand. The stranger was facing them, but he was intently reading some novel (Murder on the Orient Express). If eyes wandered at all, he would see very well what Paul was up to, and his eyes would certainly pick up his movements in his peripheral vision. Paul would soon find out if he was part of the club.

He cupped the lady's mound with his fingers through her skirt.

"Oh my goodness!" She softly exclaimed, pressing herself in more closely against him, helping to further hide the indelicacy of his action, as well as to press her breasts against his chest.

Her breasts were not large, but they were still, of course, quite pleasant to the feel, as was the mound of her cunt. He could even feel the warmth through her panties and skirt. It was perhaps an odd way to embrace a woman. It felt like when a guy (or a woman) grabs another guy by the balls, to capture and control him. He had this woman now captured, gripping her by her cunt.

"Please sir," she whispered more loudly, "don't hurt me."

He glanced again at the guy to his right. He must have heard what she said, but he didn't appear to be at all concerned or even aware. Paul did though let go of the lady's cunt. She appeared to sigh with relief, and relax against him. But, he had let go only to slip his hand under her skirt, to get at her panties.

"Oh my goodness, sir," she again exclaimed, clutching his right shoulder with her hand, her small, delicate purse hanging from her wrist, pressing her face into his shoulder, hiding her face in embarrassment as his hand made its way under her skirt and to the front of her panties, to her pussy. "Please," she implored, "not here, not on the train. What if somebody sees you?"

Her protestations were clearly part of her fun, her game, the way she enjoyed playing it, and obviously not at all dissimilar to the reactions, the play, of the woman he had previously observed, and experienced. He smiled, in pleasure, and in the spirit of their mutual role play. He was the man in control, able to play with and use this woman as he saw fit. His heart was racing. His was not a particularly undesirable role, and this was one enjoyable game.

His cock was as stiff as it could get, and so clearly jutting out the front of his slacks, inspired to its total hardness by the feel of the complementary softness of the woman's mound. He again glanced to the side to see if he was being noticed. After all, he did have his hand beneath a lady's skirt, feeling and stimulating her cunt through her panties. He explored the gentle curves of her pussy with the tips of fingers, sliding them around and over the surface of her soft, warm, cotton panties, feeling his way down, down her slit and then back up again, curiously exploring the feel of her womanly lips through the thin, now moist fabric, up and down her wet lips, at times resting on the notable nub at the top, pausing there to press a bit more firmly, rubbing his fingers around and around in a tight circle, gently but firmly working on her clit.

The woman pulled back from Paul's shoulder, hiding her face only briefly there, as such an embrace could certainly attract some unwanted attention. She let go of his shoulder and dropped her hand to her side. It was though quite difficult to just stand there expressionless, holding onto the steel bar above her while this man fondled and worked her pussy and clit beneath her skirt. Her natural reaction, her instinct, was to gasp and whimper with arousal, but she had to maintain her composure, to act as if nothing at all was happening, when in fact her pussy was inflamed, seething, burning with excitement.

She was not entirely successful in her effort to act natural and composed. Any person who looked closely could tell that something did seem to be wrong with, or very right with, this woman. Her lips at times quivered, her eyes looked a bit agitated, her lashes fluttered, her face seemed a bit flushed, her tongue would occasionally appear, licking her lips, her teeth at times biting down on her lower lip. This was not a woman who was calm and at ease. On the contrary, this was a woman who was far from it yet was clearly struggling to appear that way.

Paul could certainly see this, and found it very pleasing and satisfying. A man always enjoys making a woman aroused and excited. There is perhaps no skill for which a man takes greater pride than in making a woman lustfully excited. Yes, being able to fix the leak under the kitchen sink, to rewire an electrical outlet, and to patch the vinyl siding, were all very good reasons to pump up and pound one's chest in manly pride, but making her squirm with excitement in bed, turning that prim and proper puritanically prudish, even prissy, demeanor into a quivering, writhing lustful slut, was a qualitatively greater accomplishment. That was the mark of a man.

The woman even expressed her appreciation by reaching out again with her left hand, but this time to grasp hold of his knob through his slacks.

Paul sighed with his own appreciation and delight at the feel of the woman's fingers grabbing hold of the bulb of his cock. He would have been happy to just bring her off. After all, this was his first official ride in the club. He should defer to the lady. But, apparently, he was going to cum along for the ride as well. He nervously glanced to his right, but the man continued to appear intently absorbed in the Orient Express. Paul nevertheless did feel some considerable apprehension, for if the man's arm lurched with a sudden turn of the train, he could not really avoid seeing what was going on just a few feet below his eyes. Paul assumed that he must be a member of the club, but he was not entirely certain, and that doubt added a layer of fear, of excitement, to what was already pretty darned exhilarating.

The woman though knew that the man to her left would do his best to help keep them hidden. She knew he was a member of the club. She had not only seen him before, but she had previously danced with him, and had enjoyed it very much. She would have gladly chosen him again if she had not found this new person. She generally preferred new partners, as the more the person was a stranger, the more stimulating the experience, the encounter, would be. A new person was so much less predictable, and the outcomes so unique and varied. The play just never seemed to get old, at least not yet. She tickled her new partner's knob with her thumb, rubbing it around and around as he in turn rubbed her clit around and around. Her bottom instinctively twitched and squirmed, ever so slightly.

Paul could feel the sperm churning in his balls. It was really quite invigorating, quite inflaming, quite arousing, to feel that you are fully in charge of someone, that you can tell a girl, a pretty woman, to do something, and that she would have to do it. He had never really had this sort of power before, and he could feel it going to his balls, as well as to his head. He removed his hand from beneath her skirt and said quietly but assertively, "Pull your panties down."