TWO STRANGERS ON A TRAIN
Read on Mainstream Erotica


I see the sun is setting as I open the glass door to the busy street and wait on the corner for the signal to change. I am able to single out only the reddish peach clouds over the honking horns and passing cars as I make my way across to the train station. Once inside I pick up the newest edition of my favorite monthly magazine—with a stealthy panther gracing its cover—I sit and await the boarding call. I casually leaf through the pages seeking the featured story. As I continue to have thoughts of distraction, I shut the pages and begin stuffing the small publication into my purse. When I raise my head I see him lifting his briefcase as his hips move the turnstile forward out of the corner of my eye. “Mmmm, I want to have a fun weekend,” I mouth, slinging my purse over my shoulder as I rise to head to the ladies room.
While in front of the mirror giving myself a full body examination I reach to take my hair out of the pin, but save the thought for future use. Lastly, I unfasten a few top buttons on my blouse. With ten minutes before they announce the departure of our train, I find a place closest to the boarding area. He is also there—both of us wanting our usual placement at the head of the cab.
Once settled in the small bench seat, I retrieve my spectacles and reading material and begin delving into “Guamanian Invertebrates in Peril.” He takes his seat across from me; the train fills, lights dim slightly, as it digs into the track before it. Retrieving from his briefcase one of his usual reads—this time with “Young Billionaires” in bold red typeset across the cover—he nudges the nose piece of his glasses upward and flips through the pages. The strength of his spicy cologne seems a little stronger this evening; either that or my senses are more…keen.
For nearly five months I have been sitting across from this man—broad shoulders, olive complexion, stunning blue eyes, …no wedding band—and allowing him to frequent my late night fantasies without ever having gone beyond a coy smile the few times his baby blues have risen from whatever he was reading. In response he flashes an “I’m up to something” grin and continues going on about his business. I intend on keeping his attention longer than ten seconds this evening.
After we had been moving for a few minutes and everyone has settled into their thoughts, I nudge the magazine from my lap onto the floor before me. “Oops,” I say, kneeling down to pick it up. Just as I had intended, the distraction catches his attention and he briefly fixates on the flesh spilling from my blouse—me catching his eyes on my way back up from the floor, and holding his somewhat dumbfounded stare. I give him a warm, yet mischievous smile. He lifts one eyebrow and begins to return the gesture just as I pretend to go back to reading—shifting my weight in the chair, crossing the opposite leg slowly enough to where he sees the elastic rim of my stockings. From the corner of my eye I can tell that he is taking in everything, and I leave him with a side view of my partially-covered thigh.
I let him become fully engrossed in his magazine again before lowering my torso to inspect one ankle—as if the pumps had been rubbing me the wrong way all day, bait which he gobbles up, again. It seems that his subconscious has latched onto me and one eye may be reading while the other…monitors my movements. A few more minutes pass, and I uncross my legs, leaving them partially open while pretending I have no idea that I have an audience. It’s as if I can feel him holding his breath from across the cab, though not knowing if he can see my unclothed kitty or just a colorless shadow which indicates lack of attire. I move my knees farther apart, reach my hands up to my hairpin, and release my long amber locks down onto my shoulders. Playing with it for a bit before closing the curtains to the show, I can now feel his heartbeat over the trains reverberation—his internal temperature rising. Everyone else seems to have not caught on to my game. Most have a look of relief on their face, knowing they do not have to be at work for two days.
For the remainder of the ride I taunt him—crossing and uncrossing my legs, shifting my weight, twirling my hair around one finger as I go through the motions of reading…the same page, which just so happens to again be the coital spread. Two seats empty next to him, two stops before my own, and I move across to the one beside him. His heartbeat stops. I try not to be obvious about taking his scent in. After letting him sweat for a few minutes I initiate conversation, politely asking which district it is that he resides in and what the nature of his work is. “So, do you like Hot Fudge Sundays,” I inquire, catching him off-guard, only seconds before the train stops at my destination. He pauses, turns his head to me, and chuckles “So long as the fudge is really hot, yes.”