Train of Thought

Millie escaped the murky atmosphere at street level by disappearing into the hellhole that was the Bedford-Nostrand subway station. Like every morning for the past two months, she was running late for work. Not that tardiness created anxiety. A lifetime of stable employment at a profitable, family-owned stationery emporium was practically guaranteed. The Orthodox Jewish manager, Ari, who had part interest in the 50-year-old business, had taken full interest in Millie's Boricua assets from the point of hire. Her nervousness on this humid spring day stemmed from the strange recurring dream that had awakened her at 3 a.m., as it had over the past several months.

Making her way first through the turnstile, then past zombies passing for commuters, Millie popped a stick of Doublemint in her mouth and cracked it Brooklyn-style to match the rhythm in her gait. Everyone else was on automatic pilot, repeatedly leaning over the platform's edge to wish the downtown "A" train into existence. When she reached the end of the platform, Millie flicked her long wavy hair over her shoulders, exposing a red silk blouse that flattered her breasts. The muscular protusion near her collarbone created the illusion that she was athletic. And she pulled it off, often mistaken for a ballet dancer.

In the dim, semi-private nook of the subway station, she could've clocked in a few warm-ups to relieve the tension that lingered from the bothersome dream. Instead she settled for standing in the first position, as if about to plie. But her seductive dark eyes told another story, concealed a secret that she thought she'd buried, which the dream had somehow unearthed. At one time she would've felt more at home swinging around the go-go pole than bending at the barre.

Pupils dilated and legs unsteady, Millie staggered over to the nearest pillar. Her fingers fidgeted in her bag, searching for housekeys. Palming the keys gave her an iota of emotional security, though their jagged designs unsettled her. Rough around the edges, like railroad tracks below, like her. She embodied a cliffhanger: there was always a chance that someone would tune in to her trodden past. Her eyes lifted from the rusty tracks and drifted in the direction of the tunnel. Its black abyss she imagined as a bridge to forgetfulness, but it lured her anxious mind. Staring into the darkness mutated her neurons -- the abnormalities severely affecting the synapses.

Millie didn't know what to make of the faceless stranger who had chased her through the blurry nightscape. That he was white further disturbed her, because she lost her innocence in her freshman year of college to an obese white man who fondled her after she'd removed her coat on a hot, airless "E" train. Perhaps she had repressed the memory of the duration of the assault or never knew it. Back then, she was too afraid, too traumatized to scream. Besides, her body felt frozen. Fear froze not only flesh and bodily liquids but breath, too. Thus, announcing to a nearby adult that a transgression was happening was not a viable option.

Memory can be the devil's mistress. She remembered wearing with pride the red velour cowlneck sweater made by her seamstress mother, how she'd paired it with beige corduroy Calvin Klein pants that hugged her curves. However, she couldn't fathom where the stranger had boarded the subway car. She only remembered that he had departed briskly at Times Square, which at that time was New York City's red-light district.

Ivory skin was the only clue to the identity of the man who had pursued the adult Millie in her dream for several city blocks, then down an endless flight of steps into a nameless subway station. There on a desolate platform he stood behind her to fondle her pendulous bronze breasts with one hand and stroke himself through his unzipped fly with the other. It was a lucid dream, for she recalled with startling clarity that when the man's engorged penis started to dally between her pudgy thighs, she trembled. While refusing to succumb to stereotypes about Latinas, Millie did pride herself on being open-minded. Nevertheless, she was grateful that the stranger hadn't shoved her to the platform and pried open her lips with the massive mushroom cap of his cock.

In previous dreams, the faceless man smacked her bottom -- which always faced him -- while she licked shaft to head, balls to butt crack, back and forth. In one dream she'd rather forget, he videotaped her pumping the come out of his big dick, smoothing her wavy hair back while positioning the lens to focus on her delicate mouth capturing the seed spurts. At the end of 15 minutes of infamy, she bent down to lick and suck the flushed head clean while hearing him drawl, "That's a wrap." That dream haunted Millie upon awakening, and throughout the day -- to the point that she developed an aversion to drinking from public

water fountains.

The most recent erotic encounter passed the milliseconds of dreamtime, with the faceless stranger on his knees in front of Millie, fingering her clit and stroking his exposed dick. Every now and then, when he allowed his hands to roam, the tender flesh of her inner thighs burned to the touch. The man didn't have eyes to ogle her wet gash or a mouth to drool onto his aimed weapon, but Millie sensed that he could see and taste. His tool was jutting out, vibrating in the heatwave of sexual threat, yet it wasn't ready to be fired. Desire for a woman he didn't know and would never love caused him to linger despite her distress. Thirsty for sex, he licked the salt of Millie's wound with an invisible tongue, stopping only to savor the smell of fear and the taste of lust.

By opening her legs wider to fully expose her forbidden garden, Millie felt as beguiling as Eve. The stranger's unseen tongue, like the serpent, slithered up and down and across her slippery slit. No longer was pleasure a passive experience for Millie, who moaned with fever while fucking the man's invisible face. Involuntarily she bucked her hips in rhythm with the anonymous head of graying hair that bobbed, jerked and circled below. Inebriated by the wine flowing from her uncorked lust, the dream mate exaggerated the sounds of suction made by cupping his ghost lips on her swollen fruit.

Millie could only hear her heartbeat now. The phantom man's glistening left hand clutched her pussy. Several fingers slipped inside her muscular tunnel. His right hand pinched the shield over her throbbing clit, sending Millie's body into paroxysms as powerful as the rumblings of an express train chugging over run-down tracks. Climaxing so ruggedly, she was oblivious of the faceless stranger growing more impassioned from the thrill of eating her. A rude tonguing of her spastic butthole was brief but followed by his fat dick's angry thrust. Her dream self issued a silent scream.

By the time Millie heard the screech of an arriving A train, she felt as though she'd relived the startling vividness of last night's dream. She was panting and perspiring as though she'd run a marathon. The crotch of her cotton panties had only partially absorbed a creamy deposit, so that her thighs felt gooey and her lower butt cheeks were smeared. No odor was apparent; no one on the platform paid attention to her appearance. Stepping into the crowded subway car, Millie felt relaxed now that the earlier tension was gone. As the doors to the car closed, she caught a glimpse of a gray-haired man smiling back at her from the platform and waving his flaccid penis. The train proceeded in fits and starts, then rolled on. Millie wondered whether her fellow commuters saw the man's lewd gesture, then dismissed the thought. She didn't have to be his intended target, she reasoned. Eyes closed, she immersed herself in the ritual of swaying with the train and then resisting the acceleration as it plunged into the tunnel.

When Millie opened her dark eyes, she sought her reflection in the window and found it along with the salacious stares of the male commuters who had waited with her on the platform. There were no women among them. "This is your conductor. Next stop -- Millie's Junction," came an announcement. The conductor's voice, his accent, sounded familiar. "Ari?!" Millie said aloud.

"That's right," one of the passengers said, "we'll all be late for work this morning, and we couldn't be happier."

Another chimed in, "But according to that man back there on the platform, who said he's your boss, today is a Jewish holiday, so you have the day off."

Then all of the men smiled, clutched their bulging crotches and said in unison: "There's just one catch: You must ride this train all day, and the only way you're getting off is with the men who come aboard."

An assortment of large hands -- ebony, pale, brown, beige, yellow, olive -- were upon her. Cocks of varying girths and lengths interchanged while Millie's orifices seemed to multiply and dilate to meet the phallic demands. Tongues probed, retreated, licked and circled, and dicks slid, thrusted, teased, spurted and exploded, in repeated acts of 69. The orgy turned frenzied when the fraternal goading -- "go 'head, bro'," "fuck 'er hard," "yeah, that's it" -- escalated. Masculine growls, moans and grumblings, even nasty whispers, drowned out Millie's shrieks and bilingual protestations.

At the height of what seemed to be endless convulsions, she awakened to Latin music playing on her clock radio. "Son las seis en la manana!" declared DJ Guillermo Diaz's familiar booming voice. "Ay, dios! A fuckin' nightmare!" Millie cried, Millie cried to her invisible lover, after bolting upright in her bed. Her nightgown was soaked with perspiration; her panties with come. Before she could pull off the top sheet, the phone rang.

"Millie, it's Ari," said the voice oozing out of the receiver.

"Yeah." Her tone was brash, insolent.

"Buenos dias to you, too. What -- did I wake you, baby?"

"No fuckin' kidding."

"I just couldn't wait to see your pretty brown face and sexy figure at the shop this morning. Are you naked?"

"Que? No! Look, Ari, I know you're infatuated with me, but -- "

"Oh, querida, don't say 'butt,' and please, please tell me you're not wearing the same wet panties that I pulled down to devour your pussy last night."

Millie pinched her arm and with the pain realized she wasn't dreaming this time. A few expletives later, she slammed the receiver into the base, then seized her throbbing pussy with equal vehemence. Hanging up on Ari didn't extinguish the fervid fires sparked in dreamtime. Only turning on her inner hydrant could send relief down her secret tunnel. She writhed in viscous abundance, intoxicated by the pheromones flooding her flared nostrils and the sight of erect nipples on heaving breasts.

Finally, the resolution from a fourth orgasm made Millie drift into a sober reality: Not only would she look for a new job, but she would take buses from now on.