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Women on the Train
J.eff Fookson,
Center for Neural Science, New York University
jeff@cns.nyu.edu
As long as
I can remember I've been nosy, loving to evesdrop on
conversations I could overhear and watch the people around
me. So when I
moved to Connecticut and had to start commuting by train to my
job in New
York City, I had the perfect setting to indulge my solitary
vice. The
trains didn't run often so I was always on that same 6:29 to
Grand Central
and I would end up in the front car in pretty much the same
seat each
morning.
Well, I guess
I'm not the only creature of habit, because I would see
many of the same faces and I got to know them, where they'd sit,
what they
would bring to pass the time, and something of their dispositions
-- some
sunnily fresh and clear-eyed despite the hour, some dour
or grumpy,
unhappy with the quality of sleep they had interrupted or perhaps
some-
thing much deeper. Initially, I watched the various folk with
a somewhat
detached air. After a time, however, my diffuse curiosity began
to have a
focus and I would watch for HER, actually for THEM at first,
because she
used to ride with her husband, a huge, loutish sort of man with
a flaccid,
vacuous-looking face who I quickly dubbed "the Neanderthal"
despite his
properly neat business suit. From his looks, I imagined he
was rather
dumb. She was much smaller, with brown shoulder-length
hair and soft
features, round gold-rimmed glasses accenting doe-eyed sweetness.
She was
pretty and I was drawn to her physically but what was really
compelling in
those first days was how they got along. No matter how they
were when
first they boarded, sometimes seemingly close and affectionate,
sometimes
more neutral, their mood would always turn sullen. She might
ask some
simple question, make some ordinary remark. "Carol",
he would reply with
a tone of high-arched condescension and that would be followed
by some
kind of sneering put-down or belittling remark. I could see
her hurt pro-
test, expression timid and sexily pleading, and the Neanderthal's
rejec-
tion. She could only pull into herself and turn away, and
by the end of
every trip both their faces were hardened and they left the train
in cold,
stony silence.
I wondered
at the quality of their lives, about the mix of her needi-
ness and his brutality, and I could easily imagine the scenes
of humiliat-
ing sex that empowered their union. I could see her, wet with
yearning,
swollen labia puffed with desire and hope, and he with
his Harlequin
Romance aloofness keeping her on the edge, on the edge, on
the edge...I
felt sorry and protective, and I knew she deserved better.
I thought of
how I could love her tenderly, but somewhere I was also aware
that her
playing victim might be hiding a passive but potent executioner.
Perhaps
in her almost coquettish petulance was the sign that she was
not so inno-
cent. But, God, how I wanted her!
And then,
suddenly one day, she was alone! "He must be ill",
I
thought. "Tomorrow he'll be back." But the day became
a week, became two,
became a month until finally I could only assume that they were
no longer
together. (That he perhaps had only changed jobs or was out
of work did
not occur to my fevered imagination.) I eagerly watched for her
each day,
looking for some sign of joy or remorse or anger or despair
as a hint of
what might have happened, but she gave no clue.
About this
time, my obsession was diverted a bit by the appearance of
another woman who boarded the station before Carol's. Unlike
Carol's wan,
neurotic style, this new woman strode through the car to her
seat radiat-
ing fresh, healthy energy. From the first time I noticed her,
I thought
she had the ruddy color and open (but a little spacey) look of
someone who
has recently been partner to glorious lovemaking. With more
than a little
jealousy, I watched as Carol often chose to sit with her, and
that they
seemed to be hitting it off.
In any event,
most of my attention still was directed towards Carol.
I tried to chose a seat so that she would sit directly in
front of me,
hoping my fervent wishes would guide her to it. I watched her
remove her
coat, waiting to see what silk blouse or tight sweater she had
chosen that
morning, trembled as her wonderful breasts strained against the
fabric as
she reached up to place her coat on the overhead rack. "Oh,
Carol," I
breathed silently. My heart ached to kiss her tenderly on the
back of her
bare neck. I could feel myself doing it, saying "I couldn't
stand the way
he treated you! I'm so happy for you he's gone!" I could
feel her melting
against me in gratitude and instant love, turning to kiss me
full on the
lips as we embraced, soft-breathed honey-sweetness quickly becoming
pas-
sionate need, our hands kneading each others' bodies, oblivious
to the
other riders. "Let's get off the train at the next
stop -- no work
today!", I could hear myself saying.
I see us getting
off, sunlight filtering through greygreen, midsummer
leaves, feel the fecund earth as we run silently like shy children
through
woods into the fields of rural Connecticut, our attache cases
flopping
against our sides. It is my favorite kind of summer's
day -- gusty
southwest winds, hazy sky filled even at this early hour with
towering
cumulus before an approaching squall line, oven heat awaiting
the splash
of raindrops. Finally alone together, we lie down in the meadow-flowered
grass, a faint blush of tears showing the emotions not yet
out. It is a
moment of such heart-stopping tenderness that it catches in my
throat and
seems to last forever, but little-by-little the look in our eyes,
the ache
in our groins, reminds us why we are here, and we slowly, slowly
begin to
kiss -- deep bottomless kisses that leave us stunned. Carol's
lips work
against mine, her tongue prodding my teeth to part. Our tongues
touch and
slide inside each other's open mouths, languid but intense as
they explore
moist, warm hollows, searching, finding, slowly building with
ever-so-slow
motion.
I cannot tell
where I end and the world begins. My penis is rock-hard
inside my underpants and it draws my concentration urgently
downward; but
time is also strangely stayed. I become aware of the throb of
life around
me -- the drone of insects, the swish of wind through the drying
meadow,
the songs of birds. Gently touching Carol's face, I show her
what I am
watching -- two speckled ladybugs mating on a blade of grass.
We watch in
idle, contented fascination feeling our essential sameness
with those
lowly beings.
Carol's touch
brings me back to us as she takes my hand and smiling,
guides it under her skirt to wet it with the fluid already
covering her
inner thighs, brushes me across the swollen nub of her clit,
and then
brings it to my nose and lips so that her musky scent invades
my soul.
Pulling us together with her other hand on the back of my neck,
she moves
her own lips to catch my hand between our mouths and begins
to suck my
thumb, pulling it against her inner cheeks, stroking it with
her tongue
which darts out to caress my palm. She pushes my other fingers
into my own
mouth and says "Suck me like I'm sucking you! Suck yourself
and me"! Her
tongue probes the web of skin between my thumb and fingers,
and she pulls
me deeper into her mouth, rubbing me between her cheeks and teeth,
against
her gums. I taste my sweat mingled with her juices and feel
the pleasure
of my fingers stimulating my own mouth.
By now our
clothing is soaked. Although all of it is still on, I have
never felt more naked. We are both so aware of our rhythm, building
like a
breaking wave rushing up the sand only to retreat, easing back
again so
that moment can go on forever. I move behind Carol, my arms encircling
her
waist and slipping upwards to her breasts. In my mind's heart
I have felt
them many times, watching on the train, but the first sensations
through
her thin silk blouse floods me with a memory of schoolboy adolescent
fan-
tasy, gained from furtive reading of many dirty books in those
days, that
a woman's whole breast and not merely the nipple stiffened under
passion's
fingers -- for she is so unbelievably hard and hot! I ease
the garment
over her head and almost swoon as my hands find the raised,
puckered
border of her areolas, and then, nipples achingly long
and stiff as
fingertips. Wetting my fingers in the rivulet of sweat trickling
between
her breasts, I stroke her nipples, playing with them. They have
the deli-
cate, chewy, springy texture of just-kneaded dough. Mewing softly,
Carol
moves her head forwards so that I can nuzzle the back of her
soft, downy
neck. I run my fingers in the creases behind her ears, massage
her ear-
lobes, and then my hands slip down over her breasts again,
down further,
palms against her stomach, slipping under the waistband of her
skirt, eas-
ing it over her slim hips so that it drops to the earth. Her
body shivers
despite the late July heat as I undo her underpants in the
same way --
caressing her ears, breasts, stomach, hands under the elastic,
pausing to
stroke the pad of flesh just above and under her pubic hair,
brushing my
thumbs along the folds between her vagina and inner thighs,
and then her
underwear is off.
The wind raises
little goosebumps on her nakedness as she looks at
me, her limpid, gentle eyes showing a mix of pride and modesty
and lust.
Her breath comes in soulful gasps as she says "Now we get
you naked, too!"
She sits down in the grass, legs spread, and pulls me to
her. She is
already fully open, soft pink folds of wetness going way down
deep inside,
the head of her clit reaching out achingly from its hood. Moaning,
Carol
rubs her outer lips, pulls her foreskin even further down the
shaft of her
button, and pushes forward as her inner lips pulse rhythmically,
oozing
wave after wave of slick clearwhite liquid. She is looking up
at me with
that expression of almost petulant need that I used to see directed
at her
husband, that expression that had made me want to protect and
soothe her
with lustful tenderness, that had generated such amazing desire
to rip her
clothing off while being nice, while saving her from her husband's
brutal-
ity -- and now that look is directed towards me!
Gently I flick
my tongue in the crease of skin just outside her cunt,
move down one leg in a series of soft, wet kisses -- thigh,
behind her
knee, calf, ankle and then lick the bottom of her foot, suck
her toes,
probing and teasing them with my tongue. As I am making love
to her foot,
my hands reach higher, sliding along her legs to slip my thumbs
inside her
swollen, squishy vagina. My thumbs slide around her clit, rubbing
from the
bright red tip along its shaft to nuzzle against her mons. Gently
working
the hood back and forth over her stiffened bud, I can feel
the inside
swell further and retreat into its covering, which I know means
she is
close to coming. I tease her parted labia with my tongue, which
easily can
reach deep inside to lick her swollen, inner lips, along the
front wall of
her vagina, and then the bottom side of her clitoris. I am in
that ecstasy
of sense, drenched in taste and odor, liquid coursing over
my face and
chin, finally out of my ever-so-controlling head. Carol moans
a sound so
painfully, yearningly sweet, like a cat, almost and her breathing
becomes
a coarse rasp deep from within, urgent. By instinct, my
pace shifts a
bit, slowing to hold her off a bit, then up again. She grabs
at my head
buried deep inside her legs, and I feel her fingers at the
back of my
neck, clenching, trying to pull me deeper. Suddenly her
whole body
arches, becoming rigid and the noises of her breathing change
from the
mechanical sound of air going in and out to a plaintive,
half-human,
half-animal wail of concentrated, congested pressure...ah,
ah, ah, aH,
aHH, AOHHRRRGGGGHHHHHHH, EXPLODING, quickly, into rippling
waves of
release, a soft-breathed oasis of boundless calm...
Then, after
a long while of just being, her hands are on me. She
kisses my crotch, and explores with her lips and tongue to
outline the
shape and size of my painfully constrained cock pressed against
my pants.
Even through the two layers of fabric, the sensation is exquisite
agony,
and for some reason I think of the fairy-tale princess whose
sleep is
drastically disturbed by a pea under many, many mattresses.
She rubs me,
playing her hands over the spot of wetness spreading on my pants,
and mas-
sages the head of my penis, squeezing it between her fingers.
She presses
and cups my testicles, pressing a little more lightly, and the
stain on my
clothing grows larger. Undoing my belt, Carol slips her hand
under the
waistband, one in front rubbing the sides of my cock and the
other down my
ass, fingers in the crack. She rolls the elastic of my underpants,
bunch-
ing the garment down as far as she can, teasingly stroking
my erection.
Then she brings her hands together underneath my crotch,
pressing her
fingers firmly on my perineum. She listens to the changes in
my breath,
following its cues, pushing harder and harder, faster and
faster, then
dropping back a bit, then pressing again. I am making noises,
almost bab-
bling, almost losing it and I want to wait but she's refusing
me. Oh, God,
no, NO, NO, NO...I am moaning. Not now! But I'm suddenly at
that point
where control doesn't matter, where me watching me, holding
on, is going
to give way...
And Carol
quickly makes a ring with her fingers just under the head
of my cock and squeezes...HARD! Hold it, hold it, HOLD
IT, she
says...stunning me with the sharpness and hair-trigger effect
of being
caught at the brink, feeling the first jets of cum blocked
from release,
suspended for a moment, and the slowly ebbing back, breathing
slowly slow-
ing. She loosens her grip and slides the ring of her fingers
down my
penis to caress my balls, then slides back up to milk a large
drop of cum
from the head. I can only gaze in wonder at her smiling, contented
face.
After a while,
we hug, she finishes undressing me, and we hug again,
finally skin to skin. We pull each other to lie in the tall
meadow, and
listening to the sounds, breathing in the scent of dusty summer.
The wind
has picked up sharply and a high veil of white has moved in
from the west
to cover half the sky. Low on the horizon, an unmistakable dark
line of
thunderhead is edging up. A distant rumble echoes off the
far hills to
Carol's announcement "Wow -- it's going to storm! Don't
you just love it?"
I nod, noting
that we're fairly safe, low in the fields with high
trees nearby. It is too dramatic, too fitting to our resonant,
intense
states of mind, to leave now. We lie on our backs, legs entangled,
and
watch the purplish light invade the landscape. Somehow we both
feel what
edge to keep on each other's arousal, teasing just enough, fingering
just
enough, smearing each other's juices playfully, saving the rest
for later.
Quickly the world turns ever darker, the wind whips the trees,
the birds
and bugs fly low. A gust, much cooler, suddenly from the west,
brings the
low scudding line of cloud overhead as flashes of yellowwhite
lightning
outline the boiling tops of the squall. It rains, a few
large drops
splatter on the dry dirt, then quickly turn torrential. We can
hardly see
the windwhipped woods, save for the almost eerie, stroboscopic
effect of
the lightning. The heavy raindrops sting as they pelt our naked
bodies,
bringing a blush of rosy, pink color to our skin. Above us,
water catches
in the seeded sheathes of the late summer meadowgrass, bending
them low
with the added weight, and the rain pours from their tips onto
us. It runs
down and between our legs, teasing our still-aroused genitals,
and it
streams over our faces like tears of joy.
The sky to
the west brightens suddenly and the rain subsides to a
steady, calmer patter, and the noise and fury depart eastward.
We cau-
tiously stand up, hand in hand, and begin to dance in the wet
field, feel-
ing the sensuous tickle of the tall, wet grass on our bare legs
and feet.
Music is in my head and I begin to sing -- it is the sublimely
humble and
transcendent song that ends the Beethoven 6th. I hear the theme,
played by
the horns, simple and resonant, and then the strings, weaving
in and about
the melody in garland of radiant thankfulness after the
storm. Carol
smiles at me tenderly and in simple recognitions says "ah,
yes -- the Pas-
torale." And she starts a kiss as deeply felt as the music,
pressing her-
self into me, hands on my neck and back, warm tongue in my
mouth moving
slowly, awakening the physical need again...
"Last
stop -- Grand Central Terminal" the conductor calls out!
Carol,
still unaware, still unspoken-to, stands, adjusts her thin
blouse, and
gets off the train to head for work. "I could follow her
to her office," I
think. "I could... I could..." But of course none
of this would ever hap-
pen, and that would be the end of that... But that a copy
of this
manuscript slipped from my pocket as I ran to get the subway.
A few days
later, I'm stunned when Carol takes the seat next to me on the
train and
hands a bunch of papers to me saying "I think you dropped
these." |