Non-Fiction: Train - Sex Stories

Non-Fiction: Train

... Silently incensed, I felt the heat intensifying around my neck. It wasn’t long before perspiration beads formed on my upper lip and that crease between my boobies. My clothes were sticking to my body. The squash made the smallest movements huge. Loin presses into my vee grew from mild to wild. His broad chest brushed against my top causing my nipples to tingle and extend; his micro dance was brilliant in exposing my arousal. He stopped for a moment to fiddle with his goods, and then I felt his fingers crawling underneath my skirt. He took full advantage of the darkness while I was caught in disbelief. He reached around and palmed my ass. One quick adjustment later, he pushed my thong to the side and swiped my pouty lips. “What the fuck,” I whispered. My fight was fixed; my flight was frozen. “Cinnamon has a healthy labia - not at all as I’d imagined,” he spoke directly in my ear while his fingers lingered on my swell. The lust leaking from his breath melted my will and made me ooze. “You can’t do this. I don’t know you. Stop, or I’m gonna scream.” I wriggled my hips in an attempt to get away from his wandering fingers that felt more like octopus tentacles. “Oh, you’re gonna cream?” “I said scream, bastard. Get your hands off me,” I firmly but quietly urged through gritted teeth. The nameless one pressed his fingers into my oozing and continued speaking in a hushed, non-threatening tone. “No, I won’t... and you won’t object. Let me tell you what I know for sure. You want to ...

... get it on this train in front of all these people without their knowledge. Fucking in public...that’s your fantasy, isn’t it?” When least expected, opportunity will come for you, won’t it? Six months of writing filthy fictitious stories and years of masturbating to public-sex fantasies came to check the reading on my freak-meter. The responsibleness in me resisted; I was a grown woman. The wetness in me wanted; hell, I was a grown woman. Nevertheless, I offered a justified push back. “I don’t know you.” “Makes it all the more interesting, does it not?” Ugh, it did. But I didn’t dare admit it to him. “Is this frequent behavior for you?” “Interviewing me for a potential husband?” “No. Hell no.” “Why so many questions? Just say yes,” he laughed as he conquered my slit. “It’s a smoking oven in here, isn’t it? Can someone get a window open?” quizzed a random rider. “I said no. Listen, you couldn’t do it if you wanted to,” I challenged. “Oh never tell me what I can’t do, pretty lady.” “We’re smashed together like chronic in a doobie.” “Well I’m about to light it up.” “Damn.” “Potty mouth. If you’re game say yes.” “No, the windows are sealed shut. But we can try to open a door,” answered a sitting subway sufferer. He seemed determined to get my consent. Had he dropped his head down just a bit, our lips would’ve touched. But he didn’t dare initiate a kiss; morality forced him to wait on an answer. His wait for me to lean in and meet his lips giving consent was noisy and unrelenting. ...