Riding CoachbyCharles Petersunn©
Some of the ideas for this story, and certainly the inspiration, were adapted from a Japanese hentai cartoon, Express Train (there are, of course, quite a few bus and train versions of this theme in Japanese idol movies). I placed the story in the fetish section, as its primary theme is frotteurism. However, it does clearly shade into exhibitionism and voyeurism. Most assuredly, everyone in the story is above the age of eighteen. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
For reasons that will become apparent, I am unable to provide the actual location or identity of the subway system that is the focus of this story. To do so would ruin and destroy that which this story is attempting to appreciate and support. So, for the sake of privacy, confidentiality, and safety, I will say that the story concerns a subway transportation system of Los Angeles which, of course, is not at all true. LA does have five metro rail lines (the Red, from Union Station to North Hollywood; the Purple, from Union Station to Wilshire; the Blue, from Metro Center to Long Beach; Green, Norwalk to Redondo Beach; and Gold, Union Station to Sierra Madre), but the rail system of LA is nothing like the actual rail system in which this story actually occurred, and so some aspects of the rail system described herein do not apply (e.g., first class cars, conductors helping passengers load, and length of rides), and certainly nothing that is described herein has ever happened on an LA rail line.
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The rail system of "Los Angeles" has been testing a new first class service. First class travel has been available in most passenger systems. It seemed only natural to extend it to the subway and rail system, where the businessmen, and businesswomen, who had the means to afford better quality service could receive those extra amenities that are inherent to their way of life. There was really no reason that they should be denied the little comforts and pleasures that were a natural part of their everyday lives simply because they were riding a subway train. This was particularly true for the very long ride from Metro Center to the far reaches of the sprawling Los Angeles suburbia. The major reason that the city originally built the subway was to reduce the immense highway traffic congestion, and the only way they could get the wealthy citizens of Los Angeles to use the system was to provide extra comforts and conveniences.
Paul Reed did so much prefer riding first class. He had done so on a few occasions, borrowing the pass of his employer which allowed him through the "breezeway" turnstiles onto the boarding platform of the first class car. It was really impressive what was provided to first class customers: roomy and comfortable seating, cup and mug holders, newspapers and magazines, pleasant and soothing music, and even a bar. Nobody had to stand for the long, long ride back home. At times there might even be a man to shine your shoes or a woman to do your nails. It was nice; really decent and nice.
The coach cars, that he normally rode, were, in contrast, like riding in a packed cattle car. During the morning and afternoon rush hours they were filled to maximum capacity. Actually, beyond maximum capacity, as it was apparently the only way for the rail system to survive, financially, or at least no additional cars were affordable within the current city budget. So, crewmen were literally jamming everyone in to the point that there was really no further space.
There are also fewer seats in the more modern coach cars, as one can fit more riders if they are standing. Airbus airlines is in fact floating the idea of a standing room only section for Asian carriers. Take-off wouldn't really be that difficult, as one is propped against a backboard and held in place with a harness (for the sake of comfort the backboard is padded). Once airborne the harness could be removed, albeit the stewardesses and pilots much prefer, for the safety of yourself and the passengers around you, that you keep yourself strapped to the backboard for the duration of the flight. Most importantly, one can really fit onto a plane substantially more passengers if the seats are removed and persons remain standing for the duration of the flight.
Paul wondered if it was really fuel costs that required the sardine packing of airplanes and subway cars, or just the fact that the packed-in quantity within the coach section allowed for the quality being experienced by those in first class. The major profits are often made in bulk sales, rather than luxury sales. He wondered if the common person was in fact supplementing the luxuries of the aristocratic elite. But, he knew that wasn't true. They were paying considering higher ticket prices in first class, and it is a simple fact that you get what you pay for, and he was clearly not getting very much, and perhaps paying even less.
It was at times a very odd experience riding coach, as the laws, the social graces, of personal private space were thrown out of the window. Bodies were at times literally crushed together as more and more passengers were squeezed onto the train. You would apologize for bumping into someone, for pressing against someone's body, for touching them as one tried to find a place, something, to hold onto, and then even more so as one repeatedly fell against them with the sudden starting, stopping, or sharp turning of the train. It was at times really quite unpleasant.
Coach class did include a few seats. This was a legal requirement for the elderly and disabled passengers, but they could hardly be called comfortable. They were small hard plastic seats that were very, very close together, closer than even those on a plane. And, if you used one you often had the additional discomfort and indignity of sitting at eye level with the elbows or butts of one's fellow passengers, who at times fell into you, onto you, as the train mercilessly continued to fill, adding more and more passengers until it would seem that it was simply unfeasible, impossible, to squeeze another body onto the train, not like they didn't try.
Conductors no longer even actually rode on the train. The operation of the train was automated. The job of the conductor was now to fill each car up as far as possible. Management had discovered that some passengers would resist violating the physical space of a fellow passenger, or would not step to the back of the train once they boarded. They might in fact try to crowd around the entrance to discourage any additional persons from boarding. The job of the conductor was to direct everyone to move farther and farther back, tighter and tighter together, to the point that there simply was no further space to be found. One sometimes imagined that they must be using crowbars to get the final passengers on board.
One could, of course, resist this process by declining to get onto a train that was already overcrowded. But, this would only mean putting off one's discomfort until the next train arrived, and certainly the possibility of arriving late for work or, worse, arriving late at home. Paul one time waited for the very last train, reading a book while sitting patiently on a platform bench. He figured that the last train had to be less crowded, more spacious, more comfortable, as most everyone else would have taken an earlier train but, on the contrary, if anything the last train was more crowded, if that was at all possible. It was, after all, the last train. Nobody wanted to miss it and every single person had to get on. There were even times that persons would literally sit on each other's laps, at least those who apparently, presumably, knew each other. Or, at least you would sure hope so.
At least the trains themselves were not unattractive. The Los Angeles line was not old and disheveled, riddled with gang graffiti, pealing ads, and the stale smell of urine. The trains were in fact very clean and hospitable, at least in appearance. If one was among the first persons to board, the initial impression was quite positive. But, as it became more and more crowded, the train might as well have been filthy and worn. Even the smell of urine would at times seem better than the body odor of someone standing next to you, his arm raised to hold onto one of the steel rods and bars, spaced throughout the car, running both horizontal and vertical. Your nose might even be sticking, if not jammed, into someone's stinky arm pit. It could at times be that bad.
Well, here he was, once again, taking that horrible ride into work. And, once again, he was packed in like a sardine.
This time, the packing was not entirely unpleasant. Pressed up against his back were two, very full, soft round breasts. Being the gentleman that he was, he tried to inch forward, but he really didn't have much room. By moving forward he butted up against the butt of another woman in front of him.
He felt he should say he was sorry for inadvertently bumping her bottom, but he didn't really want to call any attention to it. And, besides, the woman behind him just moved in tighter against him, apparently being continually pressed forward by the increasing crowd of persons forcing themselves onto the train. Those lovely soft round breasts were again pressing into his back, pushing him inexorably forward until his crotch was pressed up tight against the woman's bottom in front of him.
He couldn't, though, really call this uncomfortable or unpleasant. Not by any means. In fact, it was rather nice having the pleasure of soft breasts and bottoms pressing against you on the ride to work. They were certainly better than any pillows he had gotten on a flight. It was, of course, rather inappropriate, if not outright provocative, but it wasn't like he was doing it intentionally or anything. Nor could he really do much about it. He could turn around, and have the woman behind him press those lovely large breasts into his chest, but that would be even more awkward, for the both of them. He could rotate sideways. The breasts would still be squeezing against his arm but his crotch would no longer be butted up against the butt. Actually, he really could do that, but he decided not to. This was finally one small treat, one little refreshment, for the long ride to work. It's not like subway trains ever serve you peanuts or anything. Was it really so harmful to enjoy just one little delicacy, this little pleasant distraction?
The train lurched, the breasts pressed more firmly into his back, his crotch jolted against the lady's soft, round cheeks. Yes, he could turn a bit to avoid this, at least to avoid offending the woman's bottom. He didn't think there was anyway to avoid those breasts though. But, frankly, he didn't want to. After weeks, months, years, of enduring fat bellies, sharp elbows, bad breath, stinky body odors, infectious coughs, annoying cell phones, and so on, why can't he have at least a momentary pleasant diversion of two full breasts and petite round buttocks.
Of course, it was likely that the two respective ladies did not feel the same way. The lady in front was probably bemoaning the fact that there was this disgusting guy behind her jamming his crotch into her butt, and the woman behind him was probably feeling terribly self-conscious and embarrassed over the intimate contact with her breasts. However, it must not be an uncommon problem for her, as her breasts felt so terribly big. She probably often had difficulty keeping them from being prodded, poked, and pressed by strangers on a train. She was probably used to it.
But, perhaps not. There was one considerate reason he didn't want to turn sideways. They would then have to make eye contact and she would likely just look away in stricken embarrassment, and he didn't want to make her feel more uncomfortable. By just standing there, passively, he could perhaps give her the impression that he wasn't really even noticing it. Women do often fail to appreciate how lovely their breasts feel when they give you a hug, or lean into you, or inadvertently rub against you. It wasn't like every single time you make contact with a soft round breast it has to be sexual, does it? No, for her sake he would just stand there and pretend like he didn't care or even notice, like he was entirely oblivious to the fact that two full, soft, plush, luscious boobs were pushing, pressing, and rubbing against him.
It was indeed very nice for him. It felt like he was being given a very pleasant, even erotic, back massage. Now, this would be the way to travel: stewardesses rubbing their breasts against your back to help you feel more comfortable, more relaxed. It was their job to make the trip as pleasant as possible. They would often say that if there was anything you needed, anything to help make this trip more comfortable, just push the call button.
He wondered what these two ladies looked like. He had no idea what the lady looked like behind him. He could tell that the woman in front was rather petite. She did at least smell nice. Her perfume, assuming that it was hers, was really rather lovely.
The train lurched again and the woman behind pressed harder against him, just as the woman in front briefly fell back against him, as if she was intentionally pressing her bottom against his crotch, giving him a sort of subway lap dance. He smiled. Riding coach wasn't so bad after all. If only all of the rides could be this pleasant, this nice, this enjoyable. He even began to feel a bit of swelling within his slacks, but then quickly realized he better get control of himself. Imagine if the woman's bottom detected that? That would indeed be offensive, if not illegal. She might even turn around and give him a hard glare, if not a slap! Or, worse yet, report him to security! Imagine getting arrested for pressing your erection against a woman's butt on a train. No, that would not be so good. For a moment he shifted his attention away from his lovely dick pillows, and thought about what he had to do that day at work.
But, his mind was not distracted for long, or at least it was pulled away from work and back to the matters at hand, for there, just to the right of him, he could see a man's hand right on a woman's soft round bottom!
His eyes widened in shock. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but there it was. He did literally have his hand planted right on her ass, explicitly holding in one hand her left butt cheek. Paul was actually witnessing on the train a sexual fondling. His dick swelled further against the bottom in front of him.
And, the woman didn't appear to be doing anything about it. She wasn't trying to move away from the hand. Of course, like the woman in front of him, she probably couldn't move away. They were packed in so tightly that any vestiges of personal space were long gone, and one simply had to accept the close physical contact for the duration of the ride. However, this did not mean accepting overt, intentional, sexual fondling of one's butt, assuming that he was a stranger to her.
Why didn't she protest, shove his hand away, or turn away? Maybe she didn't notice? But, how could she not notice? You know when a hand is wrapped around a cheek of your butt. Certainly her tight business skirt did little to cover or hide the feeling of his hand on her derriere. Maybe she was afraid? Maybe she was afraid that if she did something he might hurt her. Maybe she's afraid he has a knife or a gun or something. Maybe he even whispered something like that to her, telling her not to move or he would harm her.
Paul took his eyes away from the hand, and the woman's womanly curved bottom, to the man's face.
He didn't look like a sexual pervert. He was in fact a rather handsome, dignified, and well groomed distinguished elder gentleman. He was in good shape, and clearly well tailored in a sharp blue business suit, with a light blue striped, white collar linen shirt, and an obviously expensive silk tie. He had a sharp, well-trimmed moustache and streaks of gray in his hair that gave him the appearance of being a quite dignified man of power, prestige, and position. Of course, though, what does a sexual pervert actually look like?
In any case, this apparent man of authority, wealth, and dignity had his hand firmly clasped on the butt cheeks of a woman on the subway train.
In fact, his hand began to move. He was no longer just holding onto her tush, he was clearly, overtly, actively caressing it, slowly sliding his fingers up and down and around her smooth, round, jutting cheek. Yet, she did nothing to make him stop.
Paul realized that this had to be the man's wife, or girlfriend, or mistress, or something. Of course he must know her. Paul felt much better. That was the obvious explanation. He's just flirting with her; they're playing this little game while they ride to work. He smiled, and felt considerably jealous. He was himself in between girlfriends, with no real prospect in sight. Well, there was this girl at Sterling Cooper with whom he occasionally flirted, rather ineffectively so but, in any case, no prior girlfriend had ever gotten into any fun games like this with him.
Of course, they really weren't doing that much when you thought about it. He had before seen a man casually rest his hand on his girlfriend's bottom in a supermarket, a store, at the movie. Some have even given her a few playful pats.
The man, however, reached farther down to grasp the hem of the woman's short business skirt, and started to pull it up!
Paul's eyes again widened in shock. This seemed to be really quite terribly risky, but there it was, it was really happening. He stared with fascination as he watched the gentleman slowly work up the woman's skirt, past her brown thigh high nylons, which itself appeared really quite erotic, coming into sight on a crowded subway train. He wondered if he had ever before seen a woman with a skirt apparently that short, reaching just below her buttocks so that her nylons were entirely visible. Perhaps actually only in a strip club, surely not in public.
And, it got worse, or perhaps more accurately better, because the man continued to lift up her skirt, eventually exposing very sexy, lacy, pink silk panties. Paul wondered if perhaps she had been expecting, planning, on this happening, as she wasn't wearing weary, worn-down, worn-out dull bland panties. These were the panties you wore on a special date, as if she had been planning on someone seeing them that day. Women don't wear panties like that everyday, do they? Certainly his past girlfriends had never done that. He was convinced this woman must be the man's girlfriend or wife. In any case, the panties certainly looked good on her, as her bottom was so firm, so round, and now so pink and lacy. The round, curved lacy pink bottom was such a delightful contrast to her grey, sedate, business clothes. His cock swelled further and now more rapidly.
Paul felt the breasts of the woman behind him shifting to the right, sliding along his back. He could feel his heart pounding with apprehension, because if she shifted too far over she would be able to see in between him and the gentleman, and would be able to see his, or their, little game, and in particular, the lady's little pantied bottom. He wondered if he should warn the couple. He didn't object to what they were doing, but surely some female passenger might object, and quite strongly so.
He slowly turned his head, trying to get a look at the woman behind him, to see if she was noticing what was going on, but without giving away his own knowledge, or acting in any way odd or suspicious himself. Of course, he also didn't want to do anything that might stop her from pressing her breasts against him.
As he slowly turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse from the very corners of his eyes, she shifted over further until she was now standing in the very narrow gap between him and the gentleman, effectively blocking the view of anyone behind him and the gentleman from seeing what he was doing. This was good news for the gentleman and his wife (?), but bad news for Paul, as now only one of those wonderful breasts was pressing into his back.