Subway Stranger: My First Public Thrill Ride
It was in the second subway car, my daily ritual after work. White top hugging my full breasts, flared floral skirt showing off long legs, a sliver of bare midriff. Thirty-two, fit, blonde curls framing blue eyes. Hunting, always. Not rush hour yet. Fewer people, better views. No seats. Gripped the pole, eyes heavy, drifting shut.
Sudden brake. World tilts. Eyes snap open. Crash into a solid chest. Strong arms catch me. Lights dim—power outage. Emergency glow only. Stuck between stations.
The Approach: Tension Builds in the Heat
“Thanks,” I laugh nervously. “I’d be flat on the floor without you.”
“No problem. Can’t let a pretty woman like you get hurt.” His voice—warm, mocking accent, pure seduction. Look up. Dark wavy hair, deep black eyes, tanned skin, thirties like me. Smirking white teeth. Still holding me close. Heart races. Pull away quick, cheeks burning.
Heat rises, no AC. Everyone fidgets. He leans against the back door, sits like it’s a chair. Beckons me. I hesitate.
“Try it,” he says.
“Skirt’s too short. Free show for pervs.”
“So?”
“Not flashing my pussy to strangers.”
“No panties?”
Mystery hangs. Then: “Sit on me.”
“I’ll fall. Crush your legs.”
“I can handle you. Long time. Any position.”
Tempted. Sit on his lap, back to his firm chest. Arms wrap my waist.
“Hey—”
“Balance. Hands stay put. No wandering.”
The Instant: Raw Friction and Release
Legs relax. His muscles press ribs. Arms awkward—drop between thighs. His breath on neck, in hair.
“Smelling me?”
“Breathing you. You want it.”
Truth stings. Heat builds. Erotic charge. Trapped, safe in public. Straighten up—dignity. He pulls back. Ass grinds his crotch. Not hard yet. Good.
“Nicolas,” he whispers.
Turn. Lips inches. Panic. “Joanne.”
Body melts. Scent intoxicates. Eyes drown in black pools. Turn away. Regain control.
Breath hot again. Revenge time. Check crowd—chaos, ignored. Grind slow. Ass on his groin. Feel him harden fast. Thick cock swells between cheeks. No boxers? Length rubs my crack through thin summer clothes. Panties wedge in. Keep going. Make him throb, desperate.
No moans from him. Calm. Infuriating. Ondulate more. Eyes peek—unfazed.
“Comfy, Nicolas?”
“Needs adjusting.”
Hands slam upper thighs. Hips yank back. Clit mashes his shaft. Bastard knows. Planned it. My plan crumbles. Clit swells. Wetness soaks panties. Thrusts grind perfect. Cock vibrates. Back arches into him. Breath ragged. Heat pools low. Soaking through skirt. Fabric barrier torture. Want him inside. Raw need.
Passengers oblivious. Tension peaks. Hips buck—his or mine? Eyes glaze. Orgasm coils tight.
Train jerks alive. Separate stumbling. He pulls me face-to-face. Lips crash. Tongues battle. Groans muffled. Body shakes. Cum crashes—wet, pulsing. Eyes meet half-lidded. He came too. Jizz warm in pants?
Next stop, he slips card: Nicolas Dumarchant, MassothĂ©rapeute. Can’t follow. Legs jelly. What now?
