Title: Evening Train
Rating: NC17, semi-consensual frottage
Disclaimer: All characters, locations and situations are products of my imagination. Any similarities to persons/events living or dead is purely coincidental.
Pairing: unnamed OFC/OMC
Summary: A woman on a routine trip back home after work, frazzled and annoyed by the commute, she has to tolerate an overly friendly passenger.
Feedback: In this thread only. No shreds.
Archive: VX and FDB only
On the train she could catch up on her reading. Scan the newspaper. Keep up with the world. 37 minutes. That’s how long the trip took from city core to home. Most of that was spent underground. Which is where the reading had come in. The idea was that she would read, put her head down and try to shut out the fact that she was jammed in a train with so many other people in the dark. Get home sooner. Do her part for the environment.
That was the theory anyway.
She had even brought her book for the first few days. Ever hopeful. Where she got on, there was no hope of getting a seat. For a few days, she had tried to catch the train further down to see if that would improve her chances. It hadn’t. Just left her feeling foolish for having spent nearly as long in finding a new station as she would on her way home. She gave up on the idea.
Settled for holding onto the central pole near the door. Even when the lights came on, she left her eyes closed, after a while. Closing her eyes, she held onto the pole, trying not to think about all the other people that touched it before her. That was another one of those things that she hadn’t thought about when she moved to the city. Sold her car, started taking the train in. All those people that she had to share the train with.
The lights flickered on, off, she could hear the click in the dark. Back into oblivion for a half a breath. In the darkness it was always worse. Everything amplified. Not able to see, the mind compensated with imagery all its own. The smell of sweat crept out beneath expensive cologne. The jungle smell of urine crawled around the corners.
What was whispered gained intent in the darkness. The old woman across the car could be talking to herself, muttering. Or it could be something darker, more desperate. A man in a well-tailored expensive suit become another man in the dark. They all did, that was what she had always believed.
In time, she grew used to the motion. Eyes closed, she would shift her feet further apart as they neared a station so that she wouldn’t fall over. So she wouldn’t have to hurt her hands or break a nail trying to hold on.
Expensive silk snapped tight as her leg swung out automatically. Cupping her rear and accentuating the lines of her leg, her thigh. This was another thing that had bothered her at first, this display, but stumbling down the aisle was worse. Holding on was easier.
The back of a hand brushed across her rear and was gone. She didn’t flip out. She would have once, but she had done the same thing. It wasn’t difficult. In the dark, on a moving train full of other people. A muttered sorry and the owner of the hand would move on.
No apology came. Not everyone was polite. That too wasn’t a big deal. Nothing worth getting into a fight with a complete stranger over. Plus, she had a nice rear. 1 ½ hours a day at the company gym was one of the perks of her job. So some guy on the train got a feel, it wasn’t the way she normally took her compliments but it wasn’t really a big deal.
The train jolted through another turn and she hugged the pole again, her legs spread wide for leverage. The bottom of a hand bumped hers on the post as a man, it had to be a man, no woman could have, or would have, reached over her and placed his hand above hers.
His body was a solid weight behind her. If there was somewhere for her to move, she might have done so. But then again probably not. The train was, as always, mostly men; was she to run in fear every time one bumped into her? That was intolerable.
The lights flickered on and then off again as the train rocketed around another turn. His body pressed more firmly against hers, pressing her purposefully into the pole. She shifted her head and the steel pole bisected her body, nestled between her breasts, down the line of her torso to her navel as though drawn there. A quick image of strippers went through her head, making her uneasy. Not because the comparison made her uncomfortable or afraid, but because it made her aroused.
She pressed the side of her neck into the bar, resting on her hand. That her hair would brush against the man’s hand also occurred to her but it was too late to move now. And she didn’t want to.
He was taller than she was, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Perhaps 6 feet, a good 6 feet. It was dark, so looks were out. That was interesting. He couldn’t see her either. Maybe a glimpse of her rear when the lights flickered. If he was looking. The image was back as she thought of strippers.
20 minutes or so, that’s how much time was left. Then she would get off the train. Walk. Maybe catch a cab. Go home and feed her cat. So she didn’t move.
She had to rely on all of her other senses to get an idea of him. He didn’t apologize; for most of the people she met on the train, the apology was automatic. They bumped and ‘sorry’ was out of their mouths before another step was taken.
So voice was also out. He wasn’t rude though, when he could have been so easily. His hand rested just above hers, his form skimming along the back of her body.
He didn’t wear a suit either, or at least not that she could tell. Her face brushed skin at one point; his arm was bare, maybe to the elbow, maybe higher. She wondered if he wore a tee-shirt. Jeans, or maybe those comfortable-looking chinos that young men wore. The thought made her flush a little; it had been a long time since she had looked at a man that attracted her.
That thought made her smile; she hadn’t even laid eyes on him yet, how could she be attracted? Then again, he couldn’t see her either, yet here he was.
Her cheek brushed against his arm, the hair raising in goosebumps in the wake. Briefly she turned, unable to see but able to touch. Not with her hands but with her lips, which brushed across his skin. Her muttered apology was automatic and insincere as she ducked her head back down. Feeling brave. Feeling foolish.
The man didn’t pull away from her, didn’t say anything. Made no movement that would show that he had even noticed what she had done, never mind think it intentional.
Fingertips skimmed over her left hip. Was it the same as before? Was it arrogance or paranoia to think so? There was no way to know for sure. She didn’t ask. Like the last time, there was no apology which led her to believe that it was the same person that had touched her before.
Unlike the last time, the hand didn’t leave. It wasn’t a quick, surreptitious ass-grab, this was different. This man’s touch was light. Confident but gentle. Pushing to see what she would allow.
What would she allow? 18 minutes. What would she dare? Fingertips fanned in a waterfall, pinkie first, trailed by the others in a tentative caress, darting across the seam of her skirt. She wondered if he would follow the seam all of the way down to her leg, but he didn’t.
At the nadir of his stroke, he reversed course; the pressure, the intent, clearer. More deliberate. His index finger blazed a trail; middle, ring and pinkie following.
She held her breath at the top of his stroke as his hand nudged the waistband of her skirt. She waited for him, wanting this complete stranger to touch her. If he turned and left, got off at the next station, what would she do? What would she say? What would he?
Breath held, eyes closed, she held her body still and waited. Nearly gasped as the pads of his fingers moved forward, not down, until the broad palm of his hand cupped where his fingers had stroked before. He had large hands; his palm held her hip, strong fingers spanned across the front of her thigh to the outer vee of her mound.
His hand was rough, strong. She could imagine that if she held it, that it would be callused. Briefly she wondered if it would also be filthy, but he smelled clean. He wore no cologne, didn’t smell ‘pretty’. He smelled male, sensual, raw. And clean.
A squeeze and then his hand moved again, palm flat, fingers splayed out. She wondered how her hip in its expensive silk skirt felt under his hand. She wondered if he was as aroused as she was at the touch, or if this was commonplace for him, something to pass the time.
Unbidden, the image of a stripper, an exotic dancer, came to the fore of her mind. A woman like that, a dancer, would she be upset if a man that stared at her, devoured her with his eyes, moved on to something else in say 17 minutes?
The muscles in her thigh tingled and flexed. Not to pull away. She wouldn’t take her hand from the pole. His body pressed to hers but without force. His weight carefully draped across the back of her body. Not to pin her, but so that she could feel him. Or so that he could feel her.
His chest was warm, pressed into her, and she could feel his strong heartbeat against her back. Eyes closed, she could count his heartbeats. Hers were faster but not by much.
His belly skated over her lower back, so that she knew that he was fit, healthy. She wanted to feel more of him. As his hand made another pass over her hip, she felt first his belt buckle and then his erection, through fabric, press into her lower back.
She swallowed and he waited, an interminable minute that they didn’t have to spare, but she didn’t move. Didn’t flee or scream. Didn’t round on him and curse him out.
When his hand reached the bottom curve of her rear, his palm lifted. Fingertips again. Claiming, he followed the line, she could imagine that the silk would dimple in as his hand swept inwards, his touch lightest when he reached and tapped the hollow where the cleft of her rear met her spread thighs.
His breath had sped up but so had hers. Like before with her hip, he caressed. Didn’t rush. Up the seam in the back a short distance before it became awkward in the confined space between them. The man didn’t shove her, or push her into a position that would better accommodate him. She imagined his erection would get in the way of his hand and, rather than shift his hip from where it ground against her, he would rather shorten his stroke.
That image had her hold her breath again, picturing that moment when her rear, his probing fingers, and his erection all touched for a fraction of a second before he moved on. That the thought made her wet should have shocked, or even angered her, but it didn’t.
For her it was brazen, but the moment for pulling back in outrage had passed. 5 minutes ago when he touched her and she did nothing. 3 minutes ago when she touched him back. Her thighs spread slightly, imperceptible to all but the man behind her.
He paused, an interminable moment where she didn’t breathe. Eyes closed, she leaned against the pole and listened. His heartbeat thumped against her back.
The train swung into another station and stopped. Would he leave? If she reached down and grabbed her case and left, would he follow her? He asserted his position, a near-embrace, an intimacy that thrilled her in its novelty.
His hand was insistent, against her firmly, nearly possessively, as the new passengers jockeyed for position, pushing past. She was on a crowded evening train, being felt up by a stranger. A shudder rippled out from her center. Lust. That those on the train couldn’t see her in the dark, that likely wouldn’t care either way, didn’t change the way it made her feel.
Searching, his fingertips sought out the center seam of her skirt and, as with the seam at her hip, he caressed with fingertips first. Up, to the top of her cleft, before he swept with the flat of his hand. Down, the pressure pushing the silk out in a tiny bow wave in front of his fingers. Breaking at the top of the slit at the back of her skirt.
His body leaned in further, shielding her, as his middle finger moved from the silk of her skirt to the silk of her thighs.
Arousal swirled trough her with a force that she was sure could be seen. No man had ever touched her like this, and definitely no stranger had ever done so. His arousal was clear, pressed firmly against her lower back, the weight shifting slightly in a rocking motion. It shouldn’t have surprised her that her arousal should be shared, but it did. The feeling of sexual power only added to her arousal.
He pressed forward, fingers exploring without prodding rudely. Middle finger first, the remaining trailing back in a chevron to sweep up the insides of her thighs.
Her underwear was damp but it was a little late to worry about it now. Worry seemed silly. He was wet too; a small warm spot deposited against the skin of her back, through her blouse. She imagined a small bead of pre-cum raising in a perfect droplet at the head of his cock before it penetrated the silk of her blouse, saturating the fabric with its salty essence.
It nearly tickled, he was that gentle, as he ran his middle finger over the damp gusset of her thong, careful not to touch the skin of her sex. Pushing further, rubbing harder, he swept over the small triangle of fabric. She could picture him, his eyes closed as were hers, exploring the outer edge of her sex through the sodden fabric of her panties.
He could have easily slid beneath, touched skin to skin, and wanting him to do so nearly drove her mad. His middle finger just touched her clitoris and she bit back a gasp. When she touched herself, it was always skin on skin, nothing in between. The cloth should have dulled the sensation. It didn’t. That she was wet and so incredibly aroused intensified the sensation to the point where she felt she would come just thinking of it.
Moving back, he inserted tips of two fingers into her wet opening, soaking her underwear further as the cloth was pressed inside her. His ring finger touched her hot inner lip briefly and she had to suppress the jolt, not wanting it to end.
He lingered, his fingers pressed within her body, their skin separated by the idea of her underwear. Withdrawing slowly, he moved forward to her clitoris again, imperative. Not rubbing, just that pressure; it was enough just to touch her. That he was there was enough.
His hips shifted against her back rhythmically and she felt his erect cock sliding against the fabric of his clothes, against the fabric of hers, against her skin in a delicious friction.
Her heart pounded and she bit her lip, feeling dizzy and light-headed. She was going to come, right there on the train with all of those people, all of those complete strangers. They may not have been able to watch but it didn’t change how it excited her.
He was coming too, she could feel him shudder behind her, could feel his heart race and his breath quicken. For the first time in her life, she came at the same time as the man she was with, a man she didn’t know, hadn’t even seen.
2 more minutes and the bell for her station would ring. Her throat tightened and she wondered how she could leave, or if she would have to stay on the train until she could figure out what to do.
Slowing breath fanned out over her neck as he bent down a little. He didn’t speak as he brushed over her outer ear with his lip. Didn’t kiss her either. Rested there for a breath, it felt more intimate than a kiss, while he removed his fingers and straightened her skirt, smoothing it down over her rear. It was a touching gesture, unexpected.
He let go of the pole as the train moved into the station and caressed her other hip. It was rough and possessive, oddly familiar and affectionate, and she stood, legs spread, while this complete stranger held her from behind. He held her still, which was just as well; she still trembled slightly in the aftermath of her orgasm. It also kept her from turning around, either to leave, or to look at him. She still hadn’t seen his face.
A disembodied electronic voice signaled that they were about to pull into her station. The doors opened and people began to rise, to push out of the doors. Still holding her hips, he finally spoke, a whisper against the skin of her ear, before he slipped out of the doors and into the waiting night.
“Same time tomorrow?”