The Black Goddess of Subway Cum

Want to hear a crazy thing? It didn't happen to me; it happened to a guy I know.

Back then, Raymond was maybe thirty-five, good build, distinguished-looking guy, an executive in Manhattan. He wore a suit every day and carried a light-brown leather briefcase. He rode the subway, the "F" train, that starts far out in Brooklyn and runs into Manhattan.

Summers the subway is sweltering. Yes, the trains are more or less air-conditioned, but often less, and everyone gets on drenched with sweat having waited on the platform.

You never know when a train will be crazy packed, but around 5:30 or 6:00, when three or four million people finish work and want to get home to their kids, dinner, a shower, and a drink—that's a good bet for crowded. That means everybody jammed against everybody, right up to the doors and mashed against them. At a stop, people desperate to board will shove into the train so that if you were jammed against someone, now you're jammed tighter. On a hot day, your sweat is a glue sticking you to someone else.

There are abundant possibilities for unwanted propinquity. For intimacy you do not seek. Amazingly, for the most part, people behave. What can you do? If someone starts to yell at you, you have nowhere to run. "Help, molester, molester."

So, what happened to Raymond, when he shoved himself into the subway car at 51st Street and Lexington Avenue, his light-tan suit soaked with sweat, trying to preserve from work the feeling of a nice power-trip, with nothing at home for the evening but a bottle of Chardonnay in his Park Slope apartment?

Sometimes, you don't even have to hang on. Bodies press so tight that they brace you, like the middle asparagus in a bunch. And Raymond is standing next to — well, pressed against — a young black woman perhaps half his age. Right now, she is facing him - close. He is trying to look nowhere in particular, to zone out. But she is revealing a lot of breast — let's say, six inches of pressed-tight, smooth, bulging, light-brown boob, so that any more revelation would be the dark circles of her nipples peeping above the dress.

Raymond is looking, trying not to look, because there is a sexy sheen of sweat on those boobs, and because in the hell of the subway car, they are a gift of distraction from the ordeal.

And then, she is looking at him. Her face is round and full, with big eyes and unimaginable suggestive lips, and her smile is like an invitation to a long, beautiful free-fall into oblivion. She will not stop looking right into his eyes, and her eyes have a dancing sparkle he had almost forgotten existed.

Now, he's staring down, and the train's racket makes conversation impossible. Behind him and on both sides, bodies are pressed against him, but they make no impression. The only impression is the two swelling, sweat-shining breasts with the deep, mysterious cleavage between the pressed-tight knockers. And she knows it; she is smiling right at him, into his eyes.

Like a man broken by the third degree, Raymond finally smiles back at her. She is sweet, he thinks, with eyes like a doe and lips firm, sculpted, and bright red to swallow him whole. In short, she looks like big trouble.

Suddenly, somewhere down there, she does something to her dress, some trick, and now he is peering right down at big black aureoles, thick and stiff nipples, blunt thumbs jerking outward against the fabric of her dress. And she is grinning, now, because she knows what he sees.

He closes his eyes. Can't accept what he's doing. And, besides, he has a hard on. Right down under his summer business suit his dick has become stiff, arched back against his belly, and his slightest movement rubs its underside. He wants to close his eyes, forget it, but he can think of nothing but those tits.

When he opens his eyes, she has turned her back on him. Given up? What the hell was he supposed to do? Shout, "Nice ones," over the roar of the train?

He glances down and, of course, pressed against him is her black dress. But, oh my God, the dress is packed ferociously tight with a startlingly rounded, swelled-out, monumentally assertive Mt. Rushmore of an ass — a black ass primordially made to signal the male animal... him.

At that moment, the roaring train swings around a turn and his body is thrown against hers, so his straight-up bulge presses into that huge ass. He could pull away before she screams and hits him, or he could mutter, "Oh, so sorry," but she has turned her head to him, eyes holding his, indescribable lips smiling at him. When she turns away, again, he presses his aching, yearning prick against her ass. He doesn't give a shit, any more.

What? Is the subway rocking? Swaying their bodies? Or is she...

Her bursting tight ass is thrust backward, closing the tiny space between them to press against his achingly hard dick — and the ass is moving, swaying back and forth, back and forth, ever-so-gently frigging his over-heated pecker.

God, how can this be happening? Disgusting. Is he really doing this? This anonymous urban rush-hour fuck?

Yes, he is. And he isn't going to stop.

But now, a wave of delight erupts through him as she brushes him so, so slowly toward madness. He can't reach down with his hands to help himself along. Nope, because this is happening all by itself, because the subway is crowded, he is pressed against this woman, unable to move, and the subway is rocking, rocking, so that his prick, now reaching in ecstasy above his navel, is all he is.

Oh... his body rocks, her body rocks, the deafening noise making it all anonymous, the motion of the subway car a sort of rhythm of life. What can a guy do?

Oh, Jesus, he can't help it. Can't. The spasms have almost begun. His balls are threatening to pump out the dizzy pleasure, blasts of ecstasy from the swollen tip of his dick to his asshole and back. The train roars and sways its own hips obscenely as it rounds bends, so it isn't as though he is coming with some anonymous black ass. Is it? Isn't the world itself reaching its climax, carrying him with it?

He suddenly glances around. They must be staring at him. But no, the patient, tired faces, expressionless, are not flushed and panting with a cum.

And then, he sees no more because now he actually is coming, at last. So, so good... so many delirious jets of cum.

And then she turns her head to watch him — not her body, still pressed to him, finishing him off. He thinks: she knows. Her eyes find his, and she grins. Smiles shyly, like a kind of wink, and looks away.

And never looks again, not even at his stop when he glances at her back, wondering if he ought to say something like, "Um, excuse me..." Find out who she is. Give her a few bucks. Who the hell knows what?

But she does not glance back. The train has stopped and the doors slid open, disgorging passengers as though the train were relieving itself. He's got to get off - unless he wants to follow her home. He isn't that crazy.

He gets off.

But he can't forget. Years later, he tells me the story. At the end, he adds, frowning, "It was possibly the perfect cum. You see a hot girl, or maybe just hot tits, and you don't have to say, 'Hello.' You just plug it into her socket, so to speak, switch it on, and you freak out with pleasure.

"You don't have to say, 'goodbye,' or 'thank you," or 'how was it for you?'

"Really, it's a 'man' kind of fuck and we always knew that, didn't we? Well, this girl was into that. Did she do a guy every evening on the trip home — I mean, when the subway was packed?"

When I said nothing, he shrugged and said, "Oh, honestly I sort of sent the signal-... looking, grinning, maybe sort of accidentally pressing myself against her ass because the train was swaying. And she responded.

"My kind of girl," he repeated. "That might have been my lifetime peak fuck, so far."

And then he looked up into my eyes and grinned.