A Redheaded Woman

I saw a red-headed woman today.

She was sitting across from me on the subway. Short, spiky red hair, wearing a dress with some kind of floral print. Very colorful, to match that hair. Summer had arrived in Washington, DC with a vengeance, and her dress was naturally a mini, cut rather low in front and in back. The dress suited her well, providing just the slightest view of her cleavage, and tight enough to emphasize her small, but very round breasts. She had a very stylish air about her, with the dress, the violet-tinted sunglasses, the shiny diamond on her engagement ring.

I had spent a lifetime being completely ignored by women like her.

I suppose that I looked presentable enough to her. I was on my way back to the office after meeting a client for breakfast, so I was uncharacteristically dressed in the uniform of a Washington lobbyist-blue blazer, subdued red tie, khaki slacks. In other words, I blended admirably into the scenery.

She was clearly too good for me. She had a leather overnight bag between her legs, one of those briefcase-suitcase combos on wheels, with a baggage tag issued by some airline's frequent-traveler clubs. Maybe she was a lobbyist herself...but in that dress? She definitely did not fit the conservative mold of Washington, wearing that dress. And also, not in the way that she sat, leaning back against the wall of the Metro car, with her legs slightly spread apart. I reveled in the view of her inner thighs, creamy white. From my angle, I couldn't quite see her panties-that would have been extremely unladylike of her-and anyway, she dropped her left hand between her legs, blocking my view. Instead, I fixated on that hand, with the shiny diamond, as her delicate fingers absent-mindedly stroked the milky skin on the inside of her leg.

Too good for me by far.

Behind the tinted sunglasses, I could see the outline of her eyes, but not where they were focused. She clearly was not looking at me, glancing off to the side, then leaning forward to rest her forehead on her right hand. The fullness of her breasts was even more apparent now that I could peer down her neckline. Had she leaned forward further, I could possibly have glimpsed a nipple, as she wasn't wearing a bra. But that definitely would not have been appropriate for such a proper, stylish, classy woman.

She got off the train at my stop, allowing me to follow her along the platform and out the ticket gate. I maintained a casual gait, watching her buttocks move beneath that tight minidress. Walking was a bit awkward, since my erection kept moving around in my boxers. She moved quite fluidly but purposefully-while short, she had a compact energy befitting her red hair. She turned down the corridor leading to the elevator. I never take the elevator to get to street level-better exercise for me to walk up the escalator.

I followed her to the elevator.

She took up a position directly in front of the elevator doors, tapping her foot a bit impatiently, as if the car would be arriving momentarily simply because she willed it. I discreetly moved behind her, leaning up against the wall. I'm sure from her perspective, I was as subtle as if a moose had followed her-but hey, she had a great ass, and I was determined to enjoy the view. I know that's politically incorrect, so sue me.

She took two short steps backwards, and inclined her body so that her fantastic ass rubbed lightly across my crotch. I nearly came right then.

The elevator doors opened, and she moved forward into the empty car. I fought off total paralysis and followed her in, looking I'm sure as shocked as a deer caught in the headlights of an on-coming delivery van. She turned smartly to face to doors as they closed. The doors shut with a sharp sound, and the elevator started its laboriously-slow journey to the surface.

She was immediately upon me. She clearly didn't weigh much, but her momentum and determination knocked me back against the wall of the elevator. Her lips attacked mine, forcing my mouth to open so that her tongue could molest mine. In the window behind her, I saw the elevator's mechanism dragging us relentlessly upwards. One of her hands somehow was in my shirt, pinching my nipple painfully and erotically, while her other hand forced down my zipper and released my incredibly-stiff erection. Her hands were soft, manicured, well-cared for, and they felt incredible. Almost as incredible as when she lifted her skirt and smoothly lowered herself so that her wet pussy engulfed me. That feeling was pure heaven.

The light from street level was brightening in the elevator's window. She was grinding away mercilessly, flexing her calves to force her up and down with my shaft deep inside of her. Resistance, as they say, was useless. With a groan that consumed all of my breath, I came violently inside of her. My knees weakened as I leaned hard on the wall, depending on it to save me from utter collapse. She shuddered, not long but very suddenly, and then dismounted.

As the elevator stopped, I roused myself enough to hastily stuff my glistening cock back into my pants. She gracefully smoothed her skirt over that gorgeous ass, and as the doors opened, had resumed her attitude of confident indifference. She stepped off the elevator and joined the throng of people shuffling down the sidewalk in the oppressive Washington heat. She, of course, hadn't even broken a sweat.