The Friday evening train was crowded – as usual. Eleanor stood, feet shoulder-width apart, with one hand on the center pole, the other clutching her tablet. Her eyes locked on the screen as she read an erotic short story; unwinding on her way home. Until recently, she would have never dared to peruse such fare on the subway, but she'd finally relented reasoning that in New York City everyone minds their own business. And, even if they did notice, they wouldn't care.
With few friends in town, she had no weekend plans beyond getting to her apartment, stripping as she walked to the bathroom, and climbing into a hot shower. If past experience were any guide, she'd proceed to make herself cum several times. It wasn't much, but it was a routine, and she enjoyed it.
Stops passed, more people squeezed into the car, and bodies crushed against her. Instinctively, she glanced down to make sure her backpack remained between her sneaker-clad feet – her work heels were nestled inside the bag. As she returned to the story, a faint wisp of familiar cologne wafted to her nostrils. Despite the relative anonymity of a big city, one could not help but recognize the same faces, aromas, and accoutrements when being around them every day.
Thinking it might be Brian – a name she'd invented for a handsome man she often saw, and admired. She tried to pivot, but her shoulder bumped into someone's chest. Without turning her head, she offered a mumbled apology, and resumed thinking about her Mr. Right. She guessed him to be about 10 years older than her 30. Easily 6'3", he possessed a solid, muscular build. He kept his dark-brown hair cut short, and his mouth was partially hidden by a trimmed goatee. She often rubbed off while thinking of "Brian" dominating her with his size and will.
The train lurched into a curve, and the person behind leaned against her. He – it must be a man she thought – was significantly taller than her petite 5'7", and certainly heavier. A hand brushed her left hip, then moved away. Having lost count of the times she'd been groped – accidently or not – by fellow commuters, she didn't react. In some weird way, she relished the human contact – however brief.
Relocating her place in the story, she continued reading. She tended to prefer writers who went beyond the usual "wham, bam, thank you ma'am" of most erotica. Her favorites included an actual plot, even an arc that ran through several pieces. The female protagonist had just found herself in the position of surrendering to passion, or walking away – and though Ellie was sure which the woman would choose – the tale had drawn her in.
She scanned the text, and the train heaved again, jostling the passengers. A hand landed on her ass. It remained for a long moment – certainly more than incidental contact – then fell away. Ellie shook her head, but didn't turn to search for the offender.
Someone was getting a cheap thrill, she thought.
The ride smoothed out, and the car rocked back and forth gently. Ellie managed to skim another dozen lines before the hand returned, lingering this time. Fingers splayed wide, it cupped her left cheek. Unlike the previous contact, it did not retreat; as if waiting for an objection. Ellie raised her head, about to protest, when it shifted, sliding over her crack, and drifting downward.
For a moment, panic swept through her, but her voice caught in her throat. She quickly realized that she wasn't afraid. Despite the very real danger of harm, or scandal, there was no trace of fear in her. Rather, she was intrigued, even excited, by the risk; captivated by the sheer obscenity.
The days were growing shorter, and the weather had begun to change – though it wasn't yet cold enough to require a heavy jacket. Ellie rejoiced because it meant she could get away with wearing shorter skirts by layering them over leggings or tights which provided warmth. Today's selection – snug, bright red cotton – barely reached past mid-thigh. Her black and red tights were thin, and she could feel the heat of the large hand as it slipped between her legs just below the hem of her skirt.
Involuntarily, Ellie rose onto her tip-toes as the fingers slid upward. She forced herself to breathe, and waited, thinking they'd abandon her any second. Instead, they crept higher, brushing her pussy through the pink cotton thong she wore. For an inexplicable instant, her brain fixated on the fact that she'd chosen matching underwear this morning. The thought disappeared as the fingers wiggled back and forth roughly, and pleasure raced through her senses.
Ellie's head tilted back, but she caught herself, looked around surreptitiously, and willed herself to concentrate on the tablet; trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Her mind raced. She knew she should run away, or say something; whirl around; confront the pervert, and put a stop to this. But, she didn't. In fact, her left foot edged outward another inch; further spreading her legs, allowing him greater access to her wetness. The bold intruder didn't hesitate; his forefinger found her clit, and the thumb nestled against her asshole.
"Oh, God," she sighed, almost silently.
An idea floated through the fog of bliss shrouding her brain. She often used the reflection in the subway car window to stay safe; regularly checking behind her, without seeming to be doing so. Now, trying to identify her molester, she lifted her hazel eyes. Finding her view blocked by the mass of people, she leaned left and right in search of a gap. Spotting her bottle-blonde ponytail – she'd put up her shoulder-length hair before leaving the office – she tried to focus on those around her.
A man stood close. She thought it could be "Brian," though light, the angle, and dirt distorted the view; not allowing enough detail to make out his face. He was wearing a suit, and she thought he had a beard. Her breathing quickened as the fingers manipulated her button. Her mouth dropped open, and she lowered her head, hoping if anyone glanced in her direction they'd assume she was reading. Her entire body quivered as she tightened her grip on the pole.
Her assailant increased the speed and force of his efforts. Ellie struggled to remain standing as her knees threatened to buckle. Awash in ecstasy, her mind tried to challenge the insanity of the situation. Intellect screamed that she was standing in a subway car, being fingered by some anonymous deviant she couldn't even see. In stark contrast, her libido relished the delicious vulgarity of what was happening. She arched her hips slightly, pushing back toward her unidentified partner.
"Yessss," she hissed through gritted teeth.
The familiar ache growing between her legs announced an approaching orgasm. For a fleeting coherent moment, Ellie worried her unsteady legs might collapse. But, then she imagined she could hear the squishing sound coming from her damp panties, and any chance at rational thought was lost. Her body tensed, like a spring wound tighter and tighter. Lids shut firmly, she fought to suppress a cry as the tidal wave of rapture slammed into her. The release rocked her; she shuddered, her manicured nails clawing at the metal.
As she came, Ellie abandoned any pretense of reading. Her left hand fell, and she almost dropped her tablet as she trembled. Thankfully, the other passengers – all but one, of course – remained immersed in their individual bubbles of ignorance. She'd seen people – always men – masturbating, and others doing even worse things in public, and though horrified, she'd shrugged and muttered, but done nothing more than scoot away. Usually, at least. Admittedly, on more than one occasion, she'd remained close enough to watch the men shoot their cum. Now, however, if anyone on the train knew what was happening – what was being done to her – they didn't show it.
Ellie wasn't considering all this as she came. Her entire consciousness had shrunk to the feeling of those thick fingers rubbing her holes. The violation didn't cease. He had to know she'd cum, but his fingers relentlessly worked her flesh through the fabric of her underwear and tights. Twisting her neck, she peeked over her shoulder.
"Brian" stood behind her. He wasn't looking at her; seemingly engrossed in a folded copy of the Times. The fingers continued moving, but Mr. Right gave no indication he realized she existed, and the motion of the train made it impossible to tell if his other hand was involved in anything more mischievous than playing pocket pinball.
She came again, thighs clenching, trapping his hand for a second, before he yanked it free. Ellie couldn't prevent the rapid departure as she gasped for air, trying to restrain the glorious energy ripping through her. Her body shook, and she quashed a moan...or thought she did.
