Waiting for the Train

Damn. She’d taken BART because the car was acting up, and with a 40-mile commute it seemed safer not to take the chance of a breakdown on the San Mateo bridge. Now here she was, in a station dark as night, the power out and murmurs all up and down the platform from the commuters left stranded.

Some people were pushing toward the stairways; she could hear them. Here and there someone flicked a lighter to find their way, but there was no real sense of panic; it didn’t feel as if an earthquake had caused the blackout, and the city had been having power outages lately.

She groped for a seat behind her; might as well sit and wait to see what would happen next.

Her hand reached backwards and down; somewhere there was a marble perch she could rest her tight ass on, give her feet a rest. The sharp-toed pumps were sexy as hell, and somehow still businesslike, but they were not comfortable by anyone’s definition.

Her fingers touched firmness, but it was warm and covered by fabric. And the firm length she was now holding onto pulsed in her fist as she wrapped her hand around it half-conscious of what she was doing, automatically grasping a stranger’s penis through his clothes before she realized it.

“Oh, God, I am so sorry,” she blurted into the dark.

“Don’t be. I’m not,” came back, resonant, warm, deep.

“Honestly, I was just reaching for the seat. My feet are throbbing, swollen…” she let herself stop talking, realizing she was free associating her unconscious desires as she tried to excuse herself.

“I’m a little swollen, too.” Long pause. She could hear him breathing, not harshly, not fast; just evenly and deeply, the sound of healthy lungs exercising.

The darkness was freeing her, making her want to do what she never would. “I noticed,” she said. “I could help you with that…”

And she sat down, almost in his lap, close next to him. Their thighs rubbed together; she could feel the muscles of his leg through the thin silk of her skirt. Felt the muscles tense and relax, and then his hand moved from his thigh to hers. Rested softly, then moved so slightly, just the fingertips now tracing a line up and down her thigh. The line got longer, further up, further down, until the fingers reached the hem of her skirt.

“Are you having the same problem?” he asked. “I think it’s the heat. I always swell a little in the heat.” She could come up with no quick reply; his hand was sliding up the inside of her leg, almost tickling, sending her senses into high gear, nerve endings on alert. So much excitement that, by the time the fingers reached their destination, she, too, was swollen.

“Ah,” he said. “I thought you might have this condition. I know a way to relieve the pressure.”

It was still too dark to see him, but she felt and heard him slide off the seat. The sound of fine trousers against marble; the feeling of the slightest breeze, the drift of air from his movements as his body shifted around in front of her. Now two hands were on her thighs; one on the inside of each, gently pushing her legs apart, fingernails just scratching the skin, not quite pain.

She could sense his body directly in front of her, and as her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark she thought she could see the outline of his head as he lowered it to kiss one of her knees.

“You smell so sweet. Flowers and musk. Dark and sexy.” His fingers trailed around to the backs of her knees, softest touch there, almost ticklish. Then, again, the slightest pressure from his nails sending jolts of pleasure straight up her legs to her cunt.

Her pussy was wet and swollen now; the thin sheer thong she wore sticking to her, to the skin left hairless from the waxer’s art. His hands moved up her legs, sliding up the insides of her thighs, pushing them farther apart.

The two of them weren’t entirely alone; she could still hear other passengers on the platform in the dark, fewer than there’d been, talking quietly, waiting for the power to come back on. No one sat on the bench close to them, but she could feel the presence of others around her, not far away.

It didn’t matter.

She would not have stopped him if they’d circled the two of them and started taking flash pictures.

His fingers touched the edges of her thong, the slight satin ruffle now damp with her wetness. So slow; he traced the elastic, a finger on each side finally touching the skin, the join between leg and pubis, then sliding under the satin to feel her swollen flesh. Labia thick with sex, responding to his touch, her whole body responding, pushing her pussy up to meet his hand, draw his fingers inside her.

With an audible slurp.

Those lovely squishy sounds; she stopped hearing anything else, anything but the wet noises of her pussy juice on his fingers, her cunt clenching his hand, her own moans and his breathing. Her hips were moving in rhythm, now, without any conscious thought…up and down, pushing his digits in and out as her cunt muscles squeezed his long, strong fingers.

With his free hand, he started to unbutton her blouse. The soft linen fell open with each muffled thump of a button slipping from its hole; slight goosebumps rose on her flesh as the cool air caressed her breasts. The lace bra barely held them, held them up for his hand to touch, until he deftly snapped the front opening and bent to kiss and lick.

Her breath was coming in uneven rasps, now. She fucked his hand, shoved herself against it over and over. His teeth teased her nipples; the gentlest pressure, it sent spears of arousal through her nerves straight to her clit. The nipples were hard, straining against his lips, poking into his mouth.

“Fuck me,” she whispered into his ear.

“No,” he said back. “You have a promise to keep.”

He stood up, away from her, but moved in close as she heard—felt?—his zipper slide down, the hard rod inside it bouncing free, slapping her face. Greedy mouth; she gasped for his cock, sucking air before her lips wrapped entirely around it, taking it deep and wet into her throat. She felt her naked breasts pushing against his legs, his hands reaching down to twist and pinch her nipples. Her hand replaced his in her soft wet hot box; her mouth moved up and down on his cock, feeling the veins stand out against the swollen flesh, the solid, hard ridge at the tip sliding under her tongue.

His hand was in her hair, holding her head. She had a beat going, a move he hurried with his hand—pushing and pulling, fucking her face, using her mouth like a vagina, shoving himself deep into her until she nearly gagged.

Somehow that excited her further; she came, squirting pussy juice all over her hand, feeling it spill onto her silk skirt, the marble bench. Knowing she’d go home, whenever she got there, with a stain on her skirt that would smell of cunt.

Her heard her muffled moan and yanked himself free, reached to pull her up. Held her waist in his hands, lifted her off the floor and expertly brought her pussy down onto his hard cock, still standing. Her legs wrapped around him; her arms were around his head, breasts under the silk shirt bouncing up into his face with every thrust of his tool. He could feel her cunt snug around his cock, feel her coming, the contractions and wetness too exquisite to resist.

It started in the soles of his feet, the tips of his fingers, the top of his head. This orgasm gathered speed as it ran toward implosion, electricity shooting into him from her, shooting out of him into her as he came and came.

He held her, feeling the last throbs of his penis, the aftershocks of her orgasm. Listening to her ragged breathing evening out; feeling her heart beating against his chest.

Gradually becoming aware that the voices around them had stopped for a time, and were starting up again in the darkness.

And then, from a distance, hearing something like a quiet roar, a lurching complaint.

She struggled down from her straddle, straightened her skirt. Pulled her blouse together.

He tugged up his zipper and buttoned his pants.

The lights came on.

The mechanical voice said “Train for Bay Point in ten minutes.”