14 comments/ 139212 views/ 43 favorites Riding Coach By: Charles Petersunn Some of the ideas for this story, and certainly the inspiration, were adapted from a Japanese hentai cartoon, Express Train (there are, of course, quite a few bus and train versions of this theme in Japanese idol movies). I placed the story in the fetish section, as its primary theme is frotteurism. However, it does clearly shade into exhibitionism and voyeurism. Most assuredly, everyone in the story is above the age of eighteen. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! For reasons that will become apparent, I am unable to provide the actual location or identity of the subway system that is the focus of this story. To do so would ruin and destroy that which this story is attempting to appreciate and support. So, for the sake of privacy, confidentiality, and safety, I will say that the story concerns a subway transportation system of Los Angeles which, of course, is not at all true. LA does have five metro rail lines (the Red, from Union Station to North Hollywood; the Purple, from Union Station to Wilshire; the Blue, from Metro Center to Long Beach; Green, Norwalk to Redondo Beach; and Gold, Union Station to Sierra Madre), but the rail system of LA is nothing like the actual rail system in which this story actually occurred, and so some aspects of the rail system described herein do not apply (e.g., first class cars, conductors helping passengers load, and length of rides), and certainly nothing that is described herein has ever happened on an LA rail line. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The rail system of "Los Angeles" has been testing a new first class service. First class travel has been available in most passenger systems. It seemed only natural to extend it to the subway and rail system, where the businessmen, and businesswomen, who had the means to afford better quality service could receive those extra amenities that are inherent to their way of life. There was really no reason that they should be denied the little comforts and pleasures that were a natural part of their everyday lives simply because they were riding a subway train. This was particularly true for the very long ride from Metro Center to the far reaches of the sprawling Los Angeles suburbia. The major reason that the city originally built the subway was to reduce the immense highway traffic congestion, and the only way they could get the wealthy citizens of Los Angeles to use the system was to provide extra comforts and conveniences. Paul Reed did so much prefer riding first class. He had done so on a few occasions, borrowing the pass of his employer which allowed him through the "breezeway" turnstiles onto the boarding platform of the first class car. It was really impressive what was provided to first class customers: roomy and comfortable seating, cup and mug holders, newspapers and magazines, pleasant and soothing music, and even a bar. Nobody had to stand for the long, long ride back home. At times there might even be a man to shine your shoes or a woman to do your nails. It was nice; really decent and nice. The coach cars, that he normally rode, were, in contrast, like riding in a packed cattle car. During the morning and afternoon rush hours they were filled to maximum capacity. Actually, beyond maximum capacity, as it was apparently the only way for the rail system to survive, financially, or at least no additional cars were affordable within the current city budget. So, crewmen were literally jamming everyone in to the point that there was really no further space. There are also fewer seats in the more modern coach cars, as one can fit more riders if they are standing. Airbus airlines is in fact floating the idea of a standing room only section for Asian carriers. Take-off wouldn't really be that difficult, as one is propped against a backboard and held in place with a harness (for the sake of comfort the backboard is padded). Once airborne the harness could be removed, albeit the stewardesses and pilots much prefer, for the safety of yourself and the passengers around you, that you keep yourself strapped to the backboard for the duration of the flight. Most importantly, one can really fit onto a plane substantially more passengers if the seats are removed and persons remain standing for the duration of the flight. Paul wondered if it was really fuel costs that required the sardine packing of airplanes and subway cars, or just the fact that the packed-in quantity within the coach section allowed for the quality being experienced by those in first class. The major profits are often made in bulk sales, rather than luxury sales. He wondered if the common person was in fact supplementing the luxuries of the aristocratic elite. But, he knew that wasn't true. They were paying considering higher ticket prices in first class, and it is a simple fact that you get what you pay for, and he was clearly not getting very much, and perhaps paying even less. It was at times a very odd experience riding coach, as the laws, the social graces, of personal private space were thrown out of the window. Bodies were at times literally crushed together as more and more passengers were squeezed onto the train. You would apologize for bumping into someone, for pressing against someone's body, for touching them as one tried to find a place, something, to hold onto, and then even more so as one repeatedly fell against them with the sudden starting, stopping, or sharp turning of the train. It was at times really quite unpleasant. Coach class did include a few seats. This was a legal requirement for the elderly and disabled passengers, but they could hardly be called comfortable. They were small hard plastic seats that were very, very close together, closer than even those on a plane. And, if you used one you often had the additional discomfort and indignity of sitting at eye level with the elbows or butts of one's fellow passengers, who at times fell into you, onto you, as the train mercilessly continued to fill, adding more and more passengers until it would seem that it was simply unfeasible, impossible, to squeeze another body onto the train, not like they didn't try. Conductors no longer even actually rode on the train. The operation of the train was automated. The job of the conductor was now to fill each car up as far as possible. Management had discovered that some passengers would resist violating the physical space of a fellow passenger, or would not step to the back of the train once they boarded. They might in fact try to crowd around the entrance to discourage any additional persons from boarding. The job of the conductor was to direct everyone to move farther and farther back, tighter and tighter together, to the point that there simply was no further space to be found. One sometimes imagined that they must be using crowbars to get the final passengers on board. One could, of course, resist this process by declining to get onto a train that was already overcrowded. But, this would only mean putting off one's discomfort until the next train arrived, and certainly the possibility of arriving late for work or, worse, arriving late at home. Paul one time waited for the very last train, reading a book while sitting patiently on a platform bench. He figured that the last train had to be less crowded, more spacious, more comfortable, as most everyone else would have taken an earlier train but, on the contrary, if anything the last train was more crowded, if that was at all possible. It was, after all, the last train. Nobody wanted to miss it and every single person had to get on. There were even times that persons would literally sit on each other's laps, at least those who apparently, presumably, knew each other. Or, at least you would sure hope so. At least the trains themselves were not unattractive. The Los Angeles line was not old and disheveled, riddled with gang graffiti, pealing ads, and the stale smell of urine. The trains were in fact very clean and hospitable, at least in appearance. If one was among the first persons to board, the initial impression was quite positive. But, as it became more and more crowded, the train might as well have been filthy and worn. Even the smell of urine would at times seem better than the body odor of someone standing next to you, his arm raised to hold onto one of the steel rods and bars, spaced throughout the car, running both horizontal and vertical. Your nose might even be sticking, if not jammed, into someone's stinky arm pit. It could at times be that bad. Well, here he was, once again, taking that horrible ride into work. And, once again, he was packed in like a sardine. This time, the packing was not entirely unpleasant. Pressed up against his back were two, very full, soft round breasts. Being the gentleman that he was, he tried to inch forward, but he really didn't have much room. By moving forward he butted up against the butt of another woman in front of him. He felt he should say he was sorry for inadvertently bumping her bottom, but he didn't really want to call any attention to it. And, besides, the woman behind him just moved in tighter against him, apparently being continually pressed forward by the increasing crowd of persons forcing themselves onto the train. Those lovely soft round breasts were again pressing into his back, pushing him inexorably forward until his crotch was pressed up tight against the woman's bottom in front of him. He couldn't, though, really call this uncomfortable or unpleasant. Not by any means. In fact, it was rather nice having the pleasure of soft breasts and bottoms pressing against you on the ride to work. They were certainly better than any pillows he had gotten on a flight. It was, of course, rather inappropriate, if not outright provocative, but it wasn't like he was doing it intentionally or anything. Nor could he really do much about it. He could turn around, and have the woman behind him press those lovely large breasts into his chest, but that would be even more awkward, for the both of them. He could rotate sideways. The breasts would still be squeezing against his arm but his crotch would no longer be butted up against the butt. Actually, he really could do that, but he decided not to. This was finally one small treat, one little refreshment, for the long ride to work. It's not like subway trains ever serve you peanuts or anything. Was it really so harmful to enjoy just one little delicacy, this little pleasant distraction? The train lurched, the breasts pressed more firmly into his back, his crotch jolted against the lady's soft, round cheeks. Yes, he could turn a bit to avoid this, at least to avoid offending the woman's bottom. He didn't think there was anyway to avoid those breasts though. But, frankly, he didn't want to. After weeks, months, years, of enduring fat bellies, sharp elbows, bad breath, stinky body odors, infectious coughs, annoying cell phones, and so on, why can't he have at least a momentary pleasant diversion of two full breasts and petite round buttocks. Of course, it was likely that the two respective ladies did not feel the same way. The lady in front was probably bemoaning the fact that there was this disgusting guy behind her jamming his crotch into her butt, and the woman behind him was probably feeling terribly self-conscious and embarrassed over the intimate contact with her breasts. However, it must not be an uncommon problem for her, as her breasts felt so terribly big. She probably often had difficulty keeping them from being prodded, poked, and pressed by strangers on a train. She was probably used to it. But, perhaps not. There was one considerate reason he didn't want to turn sideways. They would then have to make eye contact and she would likely just look away in stricken embarrassment, and he didn't want to make her feel more uncomfortable. By just standing there, passively, he could perhaps give her the impression that he wasn't really even noticing it. Women do often fail to appreciate how lovely their breasts feel when they give you a hug, or lean into you, or inadvertently rub against you. It wasn't like every single time you make contact with a soft round breast it has to be sexual, does it? No, for her sake he would just stand there and pretend like he didn't care or even notice, like he was entirely oblivious to the fact that two full, soft, plush, luscious boobs were pushing, pressing, and rubbing against him. It was indeed very nice for him. It felt like he was being given a very pleasant, even erotic, back massage. Now, this would be the way to travel: stewardesses rubbing their breasts against your back to help you feel more comfortable, more relaxed. It was their job to make the trip as pleasant as possible. They would often say that if there was anything you needed, anything to help make this trip more comfortable, just push the call button. He wondered what these two ladies looked like. He had no idea what the lady looked like behind him. He could tell that the woman in front was rather petite. She did at least smell nice. Her perfume, assuming that it was hers, was really rather lovely. The train lurched again and the woman behind pressed harder against him, just as the woman in front briefly fell back against him, as if she was intentionally pressing her bottom against his crotch, giving him a sort of subway lap dance. He smiled. Riding coach wasn't so bad after all. If only all of the rides could be this pleasant, this nice, this enjoyable. He even began to feel a bit of swelling within his slacks, but then quickly realized he better get control of himself. Imagine if the woman's bottom detected that? That would indeed be offensive, if not illegal. She might even turn around and give him a hard glare, if not a slap! Or, worse yet, report him to security! Imagine getting arrested for pressing your erection against a woman's butt on a train. No, that would not be so good. For a moment he shifted his attention away from his lovely dick pillows, and thought about what he had to do that day at work. But, his mind was not distracted for long, or at least it was pulled away from work and back to the matters at hand, for there, just to the right of him, he could see a man's hand right on a woman's soft round bottom! His eyes widened in shock. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but there it was. He did literally have his hand planted right on her ass, explicitly holding in one hand her left butt cheek. Paul was actually witnessing on the train a sexual fondling. His dick swelled further against the bottom in front of him. And, the woman didn't appear to be doing anything about it. She wasn't trying to move away from the hand. Of course, like the woman in front of him, she probably couldn't move away. They were packed in so tightly that any vestiges of personal space were long gone, and one simply had to accept the close physical contact for the duration of the ride. However, this did not mean accepting overt, intentional, sexual fondling of one's butt, assuming that he was a stranger to her. Why didn't she protest, shove his hand away, or turn away? Maybe she didn't notice? But, how could she not notice? You know when a hand is wrapped around a cheek of your butt. Certainly her tight business skirt did little to cover or hide the feeling of his hand on her derriere. Maybe she was afraid? Maybe she was afraid that if she did something he might hurt her. Maybe she's afraid he has a knife or a gun or something. Maybe he even whispered something like that to her, telling her not to move or he would harm her. Paul took his eyes away from the hand, and the woman's womanly curved bottom, to the man's face. He didn't look like a sexual pervert. He was in fact a rather handsome, dignified, and well groomed distinguished elder gentleman. He was in good shape, and clearly well tailored in a sharp blue business suit, with a light blue striped, white collar linen shirt, and an obviously expensive silk tie. He had a sharp, well-trimmed moustache and streaks of gray in his hair that gave him the appearance of being a quite dignified man of power, prestige, and position. Of course, though, what does a sexual pervert actually look like? In any case, this apparent man of authority, wealth, and dignity had his hand firmly clasped on the butt cheeks of a woman on the subway train. In fact, his hand began to move. He was no longer just holding onto her tush, he was clearly, overtly, actively caressing it, slowly sliding his fingers up and down and around her smooth, round, jutting cheek. Yet, she did nothing to make him stop. Paul realized that this had to be the man's wife, or girlfriend, or mistress, or something. Of course he must know her. Paul felt much better. That was the obvious explanation. He's just flirting with her; they're playing this little game while they ride to work. He smiled, and felt considerably jealous. He was himself in between girlfriends, with no real prospect in sight. Well, there was this girl at Sterling Cooper with whom he occasionally flirted, rather ineffectively so but, in any case, no prior girlfriend had ever gotten into any fun games like this with him. Of course, they really weren't doing that much when you thought about it. He had before seen a man casually rest his hand on his girlfriend's bottom in a supermarket, a store, at the movie. Some have even given her a few playful pats. The man, however, reached farther down to grasp the hem of the woman's short business skirt, and started to pull it up! Paul's eyes again widened in shock. This seemed to be really quite terribly risky, but there it was, it was really happening. He stared with fascination as he watched the gentleman slowly work up the woman's skirt, past her brown thigh high nylons, which itself appeared really quite erotic, coming into sight on a crowded subway train. He wondered if he had ever before seen a woman with a skirt apparently that short, reaching just below her buttocks so that her nylons were entirely visible. Perhaps actually only in a strip club, surely not in public. And, it got worse, or perhaps more accurately better, because the man continued to lift up her skirt, eventually exposing very sexy, lacy, pink silk panties. Paul wondered if perhaps she had been expecting, planning, on this happening, as she wasn't wearing weary, worn-down, worn-out dull bland panties. These were the panties you wore on a special date, as if she had been planning on someone seeing them that day. Women don't wear panties like that everyday, do they? Certainly his past girlfriends had never done that. He was convinced this woman must be the man's girlfriend or wife. In any case, the panties certainly looked good on her, as her bottom was so firm, so round, and now so pink and lacy. The round, curved lacy pink bottom was such a delightful contrast to her grey, sedate, business clothes. His cock swelled further and now more rapidly. Paul felt the breasts of the woman behind him shifting to the right, sliding along his back. He could feel his heart pounding with apprehension, because if she shifted too far over she would be able to see in between him and the gentleman, and would be able to see his, or their, little game, and in particular, the lady's little pantied bottom. He wondered if he should warn the couple. He didn't object to what they were doing, but surely some female passenger might object, and quite strongly so. He slowly turned his head, trying to get a look at the woman behind him, to see if she was noticing what was going on, but without giving away his own knowledge, or acting in any way odd or suspicious himself. Of course, he also didn't want to do anything that might stop her from pressing her breasts against him. As he slowly turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse from the very corners of his eyes, she shifted over further until she was now standing in the very narrow gap between him and the gentleman, effectively blocking the view of anyone behind him and the gentleman from seeing what he was doing. This was good news for the gentleman and his wife (?), but bad news for Paul, as now only one of those wonderful breasts was pressing into his back. Riding Coach He did though also get a good, albeit brief, view of the face that belonged to the full soft breasts. Her eyes, which were in fact quite pretty, were large and green and did not seem to register at all any emotion or appreciation of what was happening right before them. She must not in fact have noticed. Or, perhaps, she really didn't care. She obviously didn't care about her boob mashing into his back. In any case, he also naturally noticed that her facial features matched well her body, in that she was as pretty as her breasts were big. His dick swelled now to full erection, knowing that a very pretty woman, with disproportionately large breasts, was thrusting her big soft boob against him, while he gazed upon the upskirted fanny of a woman just to his right, and his swollen, stiff cock pressed into the butt of a woman in front of him. He felt a rush of panic. He had momentarily forgotten about the woman in whose butt he was sticking his now stiff dick. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. He tried to shift to the left but he was just too packed in. He clearly could shift to the right, pushing the gentleman's hand away from his girlfriend's panties, but he hardly wanted to do that. Nor was moving forward or backward even an option. Turning was even no longer really an option, at least turning right, so that he explicitly faced the man to his right. He, and the woman behind him would clearly see his erection, nor did he want to cause him, and his girlfriend, any difficulty with their private game. Frankly, turning in any direction would risk them losing their privacy. He sort of felt that he should just stay where he was. The only consolation was that the woman in front of him continued to act oblivious to the fact that the man behind her had a hard-on stuck into her soft, cushy, feminine ass. How could she not know? And, assuming that she did know, how could she not be offended? But, there it was, rammed up against her butt, and she was doing nothing about it. The train lurched again, and the woman in front fell a bit forward and away from his cock, but when righting herself pressed back even more firmly against him. Well, she must be some sort of incredibly naive woman, Paul thought. Whatever the explanation, he wasn't about to deny himself the pleasure of the moment, and he contemplated how nice her soft bum felt against his stiff cock as his eyes returned to the couple to his right. He was amazed to see that their play was in fact escalating. The man's fingers were now slipping into, under, the lower edge of the woman's panties, along the lower part of her left round bum, slipping under her panties to work their way over to a most treasured prize: her cunnie. He was actually going to finger her on the train, right in front of all of the other morning commuters. Paul's own dick was now yearning for touch as well. He was caring a newspaper in his right hand, his left holding onto one of the steal bars that ran along just above the passengers' heads. But, he could hardly squeeze his right hand in between his dick and the lady's bottom, and certainly not for the purpose of playing with himself. Nevertheless, he did actually have something perhaps even more enjoyable with which to rub his cock: a woman's firm, yet soft, quite round derriere. He pushed forward, just a little bit, just ever so much a little bit. Hopefully not so much as to reveal that it was in fact intentional. She didn't seem to notice, or at least she hadn't reacted. But, it also wasn't that much of a shove, or a rub. It was more like a gentle probe, rather pleasurable for him, but hardly satisfying; more like a nibble at her bum cheek rather than a bite. He could feel his balls stirring, his cock instinctively twitching. It would be so nice to dry hump this soft derriere. He had experienced really quite wonderful lap dances at various gentlemen's clubs. They weren't always great. Some of them were essentially air dances with no real contact, but some girls really got into grinding their soft, pliant, bubbly bums against his hard stiff dick, bringing him eventually to that very delightfully delirious happy ending. It would leave quite a mess, but it was always well worth it. He softly, gently, rubbed his hard dick against the woman's bottom, hopefully not too much so as to arouse suspicion or anger, but hopefully enough to further arouse himself. The gentleman's fingers had apparently found their way to its goal, beneath the gusset of the woman's panties. They were now quite clearly exploring, caressing, and perhaps even fingering her cunt. Paul was shocked, and so fucking hard. He could see the gentleman clearly sliding his fingers around and around under the woman's panties, her bottom beginning to shift, to squirm, with his subtle, surreptitious, cautious fingering, although it was perhaps stretching it to say that any fingering of a girl on a subway was actually being cautious. Paul tried to get a view of the lady's face. There's something nice about looking into the eyes of a woman becoming sexually aroused, watching her passion grow, particularly when you know she is struggling to hide it, to deny it, being embarrassed and ashamed at being so wanton, so lustful. But, there was simply no way to maneuver into a better perspective, at least for that, and certainly no way without exposing the couple to the view of others. He would just have to be satisfied with watching her pantied bottom squirm with the gentleman's fingering. "Oh!" the lady exclaimed, as she felt the man's finger slip up into her cunt, and Paul saw her face suddenly turn left and right, looking to see if anyone was noticing what just happened. They briefly caught each other's eyes, and her face appeared to instantly redden with embarrassment. The man began to slowly, sensually, slip and slide his finger in and out of her tight, wet, hot cunt, all the while still diddling her clit with another finger. He appeared to be really very good at this. The woman cursed herself for yipping out loud like that, possibly giving away their little game to the other passengers. She tried to keep an even expression on her face, trying desperately not to reveal her intense level of arousal, of excitement, of thrill. She was a young lady, twenty-three years old, and she had, of course, been fingered many times before. But, there was something uniquely special about it being in public. Something quite naughty, sexy, dangerous, and thrilling. She could feel herself getting closer and closer and closer to her climax. She thrust her bottom back to the man behind her, back to his finger, trying to get him to do it harder, quicker, faster. And, so he did, now plunging his finger rapidly in and out of her sloppy, drippy tight wet cunt, her bottom responding with more instinctively spasmodic twitches and jerks. She was feeling faint and weak. The train suddenly lurched left and then as quickly right. The passengers were jolted to the right and then back to the left. The woman's hand slipped from the bar with the first jolt and she almost fell completely over with the second, falling back and to the left, the man's finger still lodged up her cunt, perhaps fortunately so, as it was helping her to keep her balance, to remain on her feet. She reached out to break her fall and fell into the arms, or more accurately the hands, of Paul. It was not unusual for passengers to fall into each other when the train made a series of sudden jolts and jerks. The passengers' sense of balance was always tenuous, at best, with the rapidly moving, bouncing, gyrating coach car, speeding through the subway like it was a roller coaster. But, this was the first time that Paul actually caught a woman, protected and saved a woman, from falling down, by grabbing hold of her breasts. Actually, he only got a hold of one of them. She had not turned all the way around. She had just slipped to the left and partially turned toward him, and as she fell he naturally reached out, but with the jolting and shifting of the train, his hand missed her shoulder, his intended target, and grabbed instead her breast, her very wonderfully soft, round, pliant, squishy breast. "Oh my, oh my," she gasped breathlessly, as the feel of the man's hand, the stranger's hand, wrapping around her breast while the other man's finger continued to plunge her cunt and squeeze her clit. She gave herself over to her orgasm, sweeping through her in delirious waves of dizzying, swooning pleasure. For a moment she felt like she might in fact black out, her mind was so overwhelmed, her consciousness so disrupted, so engulfed, by the tremors coursing through her body. For a moment, she just leaned into the man who had caught her, who had gallantly caught her breast in his hand. In her wonderfully confused state of mind she looked up at him and said, breathlessly, "Thank you." Paul was perhaps equally confused, although not due to any dissociative disruption of consciousness. Once the woman's breast fell into his hand, or perhaps once his hand had grabbed her soft full round boob. His natural instinct was to quickly remove his hand, but she appeared to be so confused, so unstable, that he wondered if she might in fact indeed fall. Of course, he was also thinking in part with his hard dick. His mind never worked with full rationality and sound judgment when he had an erection. It was as if priority was given to its needs, its concerns, its desires, over and above sound reasoning and common sense. And, so, he left his hand there, clutching the woman's squishy breast much longer than was normal subway courtesy, and even gave it a little squeeze as he rubbed against the other woman's bottom in front of him. If this moment could last a bit longer, perhaps he could also have a happy ending. But, the train lurched again, now coming into his stop, his destination, which brought him out of his own reverie, his own mental confusion. He quickly removed his hand from the woman's boob and replied, belatedly, "You're welcome." She looked up at him again, her face flushed red, for a couple of reasons. Her lovely large green round eyes were twinkling with passion, with bliss. She briefly smiled at him, grabbed hold of the steel bar and then righted herself, using her other hand to try to fix her blouse, her hair, and her skirt, although finding it rather difficult as she also had to use that hand to hold onto her purse. Paul looked to his right, at the gentleman who had been fingering her, but with all of the jolting and the arrival at the station, he was now shifted away from them. In his spot was the girl with the big breasts, no longer pressing into his back and, with the car doors opening, many of the passengers hurriedly extricated themselves from the train, pushing and bumping like cattle as they squeezed through the exit door, two to three at a time. Once onto the platform everyone established a more comfortable and decent amount of space amongst themselves. Paul watched as the lady who had been fingered hurried off to the left, the older gentleman leisurely walked to the right. Paul was at first confused by that. He would assume that they would naturally leave together, as husband or wife, or some sort of couple. But, they had not. However, he quickly realized that they were probably just naturally separating for the simple fact that they did not work at the same location, although he was still surprised that they didn't even take the time to say goodbye, let alone share a goodbye hug or kiss. Such a gesture would seem the appropriate courtesy after a fingering. Paul though smiled at the thought of having shared their morning rush-hour dalliance. A little fingering on a train would be a nice way to start the day. However, he then realized that he was still sporting a rather obvious erection. He shifted his briefcase to the front of his pants as he was swept along by the crowd of commuters exiting the station. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Paul Reed did not have another experience like that for quite some time, and he was disappointed. It was back to the usual cattle car experiences of personal space violations, body odor, hacking coughs, spraying sneezes, and pointed, jabbing elbows. He did feel like he saw the older gentleman once again. As he stood waiting for his own train to arrive, he felt that he spotted the well dressed, dignified man on the platform bench for the commuter train going in the other direction, across the tracks from him. How odd, he thought, to have the man this time going in the opposite direction. However, his view was cut off by the arrival of his train, and he then doubted that it was in fact the same man. He did though see the man for certain almost three months later, this time on the same platform as himself. But, strangely, he did not get on the same train. He was apparently waiting for a subsequent train, but that hardly made any sense. Paul eventually stopped thinking about him until, once again, they were in fact on the same train, quite coincidentally so, as it was not Paul's normal run. He was taking Metro Center past his employer's stop, having some business in city central. He did not immediately notice him, but the situation turned out to be quite similar. He was in the awkward position of being jammed back against the side of the car, in the last row. There's a bit more room in the back, with seating that allows more space to stretch out your feet. But, he was rarely lucky enough to get a seat and, even if he was, he was gentlemanly enough to offer it to a woman. One could not, in any case, take advantage of the potential space for one's feet, as the area in front of the seats was always quickly filled by persons standing, and eventually cramming and jamming, into whatever open space was available. Today, Paul was one of those persons cramming and jamming, his back against the side of the car, his feet almost entangled in the feet of the woman sitting to his left. He would like to give her more room, but he simply couldn't move his own feet without inadvertently kicking someone else. In fact, if he didn't firmly hold his ground he would be shoved into her lap, as the man to his right was pressing hard up against him. It is striking how oblivious some passengers can be in their violation of your personal space. The man to his right didn't seem to notice at all that their bodies were in fact touching, if not pressing, against one another. Instead, he appeared to be lost in some newspaper article. What did help minimize his discomfort was the person who was pressed up against him in front. In fact, he could hardly call it uncomfortable, although it was discomforting, psychologically. She was strikingly attractive, with short, very curly blonde hair, rosy and dimpled cheeks, and large blue eyes with long fluttering lashes. She immediately reminded of him of that female character in "All in the Family," Gloria: cute, pretty, bubbly, and with very big round tits that were pressing right into his chest. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more this woman made him think of similar woman, like Kelly Bundy, Dee Twiddle, and certainly Carol Connors, who was the nurse in Deep Throat (and eventual mother to Thora Birch). The fact that this woman's big breasts were thrust against him did probably have something to do with his more lascivious associations. However, unlike how he would imagine (or fantasize) how Dee Twiddle or Carol Connors would react, this young woman was clearly distraught by the forced embrace, and he could hardly blame her. He would certainly have been very apologetic and even more embarrassed if he had seen the face of the woman against whom he had been pressing his erection during that earlier train ride. In this instance, avoiding eye contact was really quite difficult, as they were facing each other and there was really no way for him to turn away, at least without shoving aside the man on his right. "It's a little crowded today," he said politely, as he felt those lusciously large soft cushions pressing into his chest, trying to pretend though that he wasn't noticing them. She was a bit shorter than him, and she looked up at him, her large blue eyes looking so plaintive, so distraught, so stricken. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I just can't move." He shook his head reassuringly, as if he wasn't even aware that there was any problem. "No, no, it's fine, don't worry about it." It was a lame effort, or at least it was easy for him to say not to worry about it. He wasn't the one with his breasts being crushed into the chest of a complete stranger, as if she was trying to literally force herself upon him. With the last persons being squeezed on board, the train lurched as it started down its track, and the woman momentarily lost her footing, falling even more heavily into Paul as well as a bit off to the side. He let go of the steel bar above his head, braced himself against the wall of the train, and wrapped his left arm around the waist of the woman to help keep her from falling down onto the seated woman. "Thanks," she meekly replied, as she felt his arm go around her and pull her against him even more snugly, as if he was trying to embrace her. He smiled back. "Not a problem, happens all the time." It wasn't like he saved her from a pit full of snakes, but it did always feel good to help a woman in distress, and she certainly did feel good pressed against him. He could tell by his arm around her waist that she did indeed have a very nice figure, as her waist was really quite small. He imagined that she must look very well without her business suit, his penis swelling at the thought, and the feel, of her feminine figure. He kept his arm around her for a bit more, as the train did tend to jerk and shake as it left the station, and she did not seem to protest. When a train first begins to move, many of the standing passengers will adjust their positions to become more firmly, safely planted. This was obviously necessary for the woman, but there was really so very little foot room, with the two of them essentially standing amidst the feet of the passengers sitting in the back row. She did the best she could though, trying to find a position for her feet that would minimize the likelihood that she would slip or fall when another lurch of the train occurred. All of this movement and adjustment, however, also had the appearance, or at least the effect, of shifting, rubbing, massaging her breasts into Paul's chest. Paul tried to move his chest away from the lady's breasts, or at least he gave the appearance that he tried. It would be the polite, respectful, and gentlemanly thing to do, but he had to admit that it wasn't an unpleasant experience, at least for him, to have those full soft melons pressing into him, and perhaps largely harmless for her; at worst only some minor embarrassment. In fact, his own movement had the complementary effect of seemingly returning the favor of their unfortunate, or fortunate (depending upon your perspective), embrace by pressing, rubbing, and shifting his chest against those big, luscious boobs. The woman reached above with her left hand to grasp hold of the steel bar. It is really quite difficult to ride a commuter train without holding on to something. To do so would be essentially surfing the rails, and you're really quite liable to lose your balance entirely when you do so. She had in fact almost fallen when the train first pulled away. Her choices for support though were minimal. There was the steel bar that ran along the middle of the train, which was well behind her, and the one that ran along the edge of the train, which was just above Paul's head. She reached up for that bar, and that pulled her even more closely into him. They were essentially occupying a space that was intended for only one person. "Sorry," she again apologized. Riding Coach Paul was now really enjoying this. Normally this person pressed against him would be some unattractive old man, crowding into his space to hold onto the steel bar, raising up his arm so that he could smell his body odor and his stale tobacco breath. Instead, this was a most pretty young lady with full breasts pressing into his chest and, rather than body odor, he had the distinct pleasure of an intoxicating blend of fresh morning perfume, delicate hair spray, and fresh morning body wash. Paul so enjoyed a woman's perfume. Perhaps because it was so much in contrast with the stench of commuters, trains, and subway stations. But, it was also so nice to suddenly enter in the morning the trail, the cloud, of a woman's perfume. Perfumes can be so strong in the morning, as they were so recently applied, and many ladies would leave behind them a wonderful trace of their recent presence in the morning air. In this case, he was treated to a most intimate saturation of flowery feminine fragrance. He suddenly realized though that his hand, his arm, had been around the waist of the woman longer than really necessary, longer than would be polite or appropriate. With her grasping of the bar, she didn't really need him to hold her up. Keeping his arm wrapped around her lovely thin waist at this point could only be interpreted as an embrace. He reluctantly withdraw his arm and grasped hold of the bar himself. He considered laying his briefcase on the floor, and placing his right gently on her hip, just to be helpful, but there was really no place to put the briefcase without risking it falling onto someone's foot. There was hardly even enough space to place it down on the floor without resting it across a foot. The woman gave him a quizzical look, and that was a bit confusing. He had expected her to smile politely, albeit somewhat embarrassingly, acknowledging that yes, indeed, his holding her against him had been very helpful but it was time to acknowledge that this close contact is really quite uncomfortable, at least psychologically, and they should minimize it as much as possible. He wondered if perhaps she hadn't actually realized that he had been holding onto her so tightly, and her expression suggested that with the removal of his arm, his hand, she was now just realizing that he had in fact been embracing her. In any case, he averted his eyes, feeling the close, intimate contact to be embarrassing for himself as well. "Oh!" she suddenly exclaimed. He returned his eyes to hers. She again looked rather distraught and perplexed, even a bit shocked, and he didn't understand it. The train was now moving rather steadily. She appeared to be firmly implanted, albeit still pressed up closely against him. What was upsetting her? "Oh my goodness," she whispered, leaning in, moving up, more tightly against him, if that was at all possible. He certainly did not object to her snuggling up even closer against him, or at least it felt that way, and would appear that way if anyone was looking. But he could not understand what was troubling her. "What's wrong?" He wondered if perhaps she was having some sort of gastrointestinal problem. He thought, 'Please don't fart, lady.' It was always the worst moment of a tight commuter ride to have someone actually fart on the train. Couldn't they at least wait until they got off the train? And, of course, nobody would admit to it. Nobody would apologize. All you could see would be grimaces, frowns, and scowls as passengers were hit with the toxic cloud. He imagined that even the perpetrator of this obnoxious onslaught would scowl, thereby avoiding being detected as the true culprit. It was at times rather obvious who the guilty party was though, particularly if he looked to be seemingly oblivious to the stench that was overwhelmingly disgusting to everyone around him (and it did always seemed to be a him). Well, Paul surely hoped not. That would certainly end the morning spell that up until this moment had been so wonderful. Perhaps though her morning perfume would be powerful enough to overcome the fetid stink. In any case, he braced himself for the rising storm. This time when he said, 'No problem,' he wouldn't mean it. But, that apparently wasn't it, not even close. She responded by simply repeating, "Oh my goodness." He again asked, "What, what's wrong?" She rested her head into his shoulder, apparently too embarrassed to say, to explain, what was troubling her. This was most strange indeed. Perhaps it was some sort of feminine problem? Perhaps she was on her period and she forgot to put in a tampon? He could certainly understand her not wanting to explain that to him. But, that wasn't it either. She pulled her head away from his shoulder, looked up into his eyes, and whispered ever so quietly, "The man, behind me, his hand." Paul's brow furrowed in confusion, and then quickly he felt he understood. The reason she was pressing so hard against him must be because she was being equally pressed, and likely as indelicately, by the man behind her. And, it wasn't just his body, it included his hand, apparently in a rather sensitive place. Apparently the hand of a man behind her was touching her bottom, or something. Paul would have to admit that there were times that the back of his hand would briefly rest against a soft, round, curvey tush, and he might even leave it there for awhile, not too long though. He would remove it before it became apparent that there was in fact motive and intention behind the accidental touch. Although, in fact, that also wasn't really true. Sometimes he would just leave it there, particularly if the train was especially crowded, and it could be considered simply an innocent, inadvertent accident, one that was in fact entirely outside of his awareness, his consciousness, which is why the hand continued to rest against the soft, round, curved bottom. But, if the woman made any gesture of annoyance, of awareness, he would obviously quickly move it away, and even apologize for the unintended, accidental indiscretion. "Here, he said, "I'll move back a bit, give you more room." It was a risky gesture, as it revealed that he could have done this earlier, if not for the pleasure of her breasts pressed against him, although in actual fact, he had no place to move to. At best he gave her just another inch, and that would require him to stand in a more awkward manner. The things a man will do to be a gentleman. He shifted about an inch. But, it didn't help. In fact, the woman moved even more tightly against him, and apparently the man behind her shifted as well, perhaps even pressing his hand more firmly against her tush. "No, no," she whispered, "it's still there, his hand." She added, more quietly, "it's touching my bottom." Paul's cock twitched in response, and he didn't know quite what to do. You really do hate to make a scene on a train, confronting someone about violating your personal space. Who knows how the person will react, and perhaps it was indeed an innocent mistake. He tried to reassure her. "It is a little crowded. He probably doesn't know what he's doing. The ride will be over soon." "No, no, you don't understand," she implored, again resting her pretty head into his shoulder as she confessed, "He's holding my bottom." Paul having his hand around her waist had been inappropriate, at least keeping it there beyond the point of necessity had been inappropriate. But, this man was actually holding her bottom? What kind of gall, audacity, effrontery, was this? He looked past the woman to see who would do such a thing, hoping it was not some sort of street thug or something. It was that same man: the stately older gentleman! He was very easily recognizable, with his distinguished clothes, his sharp, well-trimmed moustache, the streaks of gray in his neatly groomed, straight back hair. Yes, it was him, and this time this was certainly not his girlfriend. Unless, of course, he had two girlfriends. He was indeed quite good looking and, by the way he dressed, he must have a pretty darned good income. He could easily afford two women, and could very well have a mistress, along with a wife. No, wait, this woman obviously doesn't know him. He was apparently boldly fondling the bottom of a complete stranger! Paul felt the manly instinct to leap to this girl's defense. "Tell him to back off," he suggested. Well, he obviously didn't leap to her defense. He instead just suggested that she defend herself. He would perhaps back her up. "No, no, I can't do that." He wasn't too sure why not. She certainly had the right to tell him to back off. But, then again, maybe it was difficult for her, as a woman, to confront bigger and stronger men. That was certainly understandable. It was obviously his duty, his responsibility, to step up to the plate and be a man. "I'll do it," he forcefully asserted, sounding more confident than he really was. Still, he would be quite willing to have the security service become involved in this, perhaps even the police. He had witnessed him doing this before. He could testify as to that. Although, he would hate to be late for work, and he certainly wouldn't want to take time off to testify in some court case. "No, no!" She asserted, even more forcefully than he had spoken. "Don't do that. I don't want any trouble." It seemed like that there was already some trouble, at least for her, but he was ashamed to admit that he felt some degree of relief. He really did hate to confront persons, and this man did look like he could be a powerful adversary, at least financially, if it came to something involving legal matters. "Oh no, oh no, oh no," she softly whimpered. "What is it?" She let go of the bar above him, clenched his side, and whispered. "I think he's reaching underneath my skirt." Unbelievable! This really had to be the most brazen man he had ever known. Paul again looked back over her shoulder to give the man his most assertive, forceful scowl. He would let him know that he knew full well what he was doing and that he did not approve of it! But, it was a pointless gesture, or expression, as the man was not actually looking in his direction. In fact, he appeared to be pretending to be reading some book, using his left hand to hold onto that while his right hand was exploring beneath the lady's skirt. Perhaps he was maintaining his balance by lodging a leg against the back of the seat in front of him. Paul did at times see rather experienced, or athletic, train riders managing to maintain their balance simply by their stance. He at times tried that, but usually wound up grabbing onto something once the train lurched. In any case, his strident scowl fell on blind eyes. He looked around to see if anyone else perhaps was noticing this outrageous act. Perhaps someone else could catch his eye. But, everyone seemed to be engrossed in a newspaper, a magazine, a novel, or just staring off in some other direction. It was like the three of them didn't even exist, at least in their world. Avoiding eye contact was one way to deal with encroachments on personal space. It makes the crowding feel less evident, less real. Everyone winds up staring off in different directions, nobody seems to notice each other's existence, let alone engage in a conversation. The more impersonal it becomes, the less personal the space violation is experienced. Paul was though surprised that at least one of the few persons who was also closely packed within their little area, such as the woman sitting to his left, or the man standing to his right, hadn't even just at least noticed the gentleman fondling the lady's bottom and, if they had, how could they simply ignore it? "We'll talk to security at the next stop," he suggested, although he knew that the next stop would not be for some time. They were now on a particularly long stretch of the track. The young lady sank her head into his chest, whimpered, and said, "He's feeling my panties. He has his hand on my bottom, on my panties." Paul felt quite guilty, but still he could not help as well feeling his penis stiffen and swell at the thought of being able to fondle this woman's soft, round, firm tush as her breasts were pressed against him. Is there a better way to ride a train? Perhaps he could deter the man by placing his own hand there? It was a bold suggestion, but it might indeed work. He quietly, respectfully suggested, "Maybe if I put my hand there, he would notice it, and then back off. You know, thinking that maybe you're my girlfriend, or wife, or something." She looked up at him expectantly, hopefully. "You would really do that?" It was not the reaction he had expected. He naturally assumed that she would cringe at the thought. She was already being molested by one hand, why add another, particularly one from the guy upon whom she is mashing her breasts. He responded, "If you think it would help." "You're so sweet," she replied, smiling up at him, "and I hardly even know you." "It's fine, really. No problem," he said, and began to work his left hand around her waist, heading toward her bottom. His dick swelled rapidly in his pants. Fortunately he was wearing loose boxers, although he did fear that she might in fact notice his hardness if he became fully erect, and he certainly would once he got beneath her skirt and onto her panty clad fanny. She suddenly exclaimed, "No, no, wait!" His had paused on her right cheek, outside her skirt. "I can't, I can't. It's just too embarrassing. I'm sorry, really, please, stop." She didn't really have to apologize. It had seemed a bit surreal to even consider slipping his hand under skirt. He gave her bottom cheek a couple of little understanding pats before retreating his hand. But, he didn't fully withdraw. He returned it to her waist, holding her against him, for reassurance and comfort. "Oh!" She gasped, and clutched his body, pulling herself closer, tighter, against him. He could feel her gasping breaths through the rising and falling of her breasts pressing against him. "He's sticking his finger under my panties. He's going to touch me.....there." She didn't say exactly where, but he could imagine. He never had a woman describe to him what's it like for her to have sex, to describe to him what she was feeling as he was nibbling on her nipple, squeezing her bottom, or slipping his cock up her hole. In fact, none of his girlfriends had ever said much of anything when they had sex. They would moan, gasp, sigh, and whimper, but they didn't actually say anything. They certainly didn't provide a running commentary, and he now realized that doing so was actually rather erotic, hearing a woman describe to him what is happening, what she is feeling, while she is being fondled, and perhaps even fingered. "Oh my, oh my," she gasped. "His finger is on my, my, well," she paused, "you know." "No, no, I don't," he lied. "What is he doing?" He really wanted to hear her say it. "Oh please, don't make me say it, it's so embarrassing." "I understand," he whispered, giving her a comforting squeeze. "You don't have to tell me." But, apparently she did. "It's just that, it's so, so personal, I mean, well, it's on my thing, my womanhood. Oh my," she sighed, and shivered against his chest. "Are you okay?" He didn't know too much else what to say. She didn't want him to interfere, but he could hardly stand there and do nothing, plus he didn't want to be left out. He wanted to hear every detail. She shifted her left hand from his side, squeezed it in between their bodies, and gripped his masculine chest. "It's so embarrassing," she confessed. She whispered, "He knows I'm wet." Paul's cock surged with the confession. She was actually enjoying it? He had to wonder if perhaps that was why she didn't want him to interfere. Could that really be true? "He's fingering me now. He's sticking a finger in and out of my, my..." She hesitated to complete her sentence, and then added, "my pussy. He's doing it to my pussy with his finger. Oh my goodness!" Her breathing was becoming deeper, and faster, and he could detect some movement of her hips. He shifted his pelvis to try to give her more wiggle room, quite literally so, but also positioning his own hardness so that it received more direct, intimate contact. The elder gentleman appeared to consider this to be an opportunity to escalate his game. Paul saw him lower his hand that was holding the book, his full attention shifting directly to the lady's bottom. "Hmmm," she moaned. "I think he's stopped." But, she then suddenly broke from his chest and looked up into his eyes, her eyes flush with arousal but expressing as well shock and dismay. "Oh no! He's pulled my panties down! He's got my panties down off my bottom." She buried her face back into his chest and said, "I just so hope that nobody can see this, that nobody can see my bare bottom." Paul had the thought that perhaps he should check, just to be certain. She might want to know if the panties were also down in the front as well. He could politely reach under her skirt to see if he could feel her open, bare naked cunt. It might in fact be helpful to have a third party confirm that her panties were in fact down, just in case she did want to take this to court. But, he also appreciated that she could very well interpret his gesture as an effort to finger her from the front as the gentleman was fingering her from behind. And, frankly, she would be right. Once the gentleman had pulled her panties down far enough to gain easier access, he brought the book back up to read, and he resumed his fondling and fingering as he pretended to read the book. Paul again looked around them. It was hard to imagine that nobody was seeing this, but it was true that only the man to his right and the woman to his left, and a couple of other men pressed in back of her and the gentlemen, could really see anything, and none appeared to be at all aware or, if they had noticed, they were certainly acting like they were completely disinterested. The panties had not been pulled down so far that they could be seen beneath the hem of the woman's skirt. It was a rather short skirt, which facilitated the gentleman's effort to slip his hand up inside, but it was long enough so that the panties were not at all visible, bunched up just below her bottom cheeks. Still, as his hand worked its way back up her skirt, any person within the immediate vicinity would be able to see what was happening. It's a little obvious what is going on when a hand disappears beneath a skirt, with quite obviously meaningful and suggestive movements. Paul was surprised at the risk this gentleman was taking. Although, he was also being well rewarded for the effort. It would be rather nice, to say the least, to fondle and finger a pretty lady with a cute tush. "He's got his hand on my bottom again," she whispered up to him. The train took a sudden lurch. "Oh!" She squealed, as she almost lost her footing. Paul almost fell as well, as she was relying on him to hold her balance, and his hands were no longer braced against any part of the train. Perhaps though she should in fact give thanks to the gentleman behind her, for just as the train lurched he plunged two fingers up inside her cunt, effectively lodging, impaling, her onto his fingers, thereby providing a supportive spike upon which to help maintain her balance. The gentleman's fingers stuck up her cunt were probably not the key factor in keeping her from losing her footing, and she was unlikely, in any case, to thank him for his help even it they were helpful. In fact, she felt more like she was skewered on his fingers, rather than steadied. Once everyone's balance was restored, the gentleman began his fingering in more earnest, sliding the two fingers in and out of what was now a well-heated and voluptuously moist cunt. Fortunately, the noises of the train were sufficiently loud that one could not hear the slurping and slushing noises of her slit as his fingers slipped in and out. And, being the gentleman that he was, he also helped her enjoy his game by bringing his thumb into play on her clit as well. Riding Coach "I don't think I can take it much longer," she gasped to Paul. "His thumb, it's on my, my..." Her voice became quieter, and in a very soft whisper, she said, "my clitoris." And, in case he didn't appreciate the importance of that admission, she added, "That always gets me so excited." "There, there," he said, patting her back, like he was trying to reassure a scared little girl. She snuggled her face deep into his shoulder and gasped, "It's so wrong, I know. It's so naughty and bad, but I so very much like it when a guy diddles my clit." Paul's dick was straining in his pants at the eroticism of her words. He rubbed himself against her, trying to pretend that it was the train causing his hard, erect cock to grind against her rather than his hips. "I just can't help myself." If he had any doubts of her intense arousal, her hands reached inside his suit jacket and were feeling, gripping, clawing, and scratching at his chest, while her hips were jerking, squirming, and wiggling against his crotch, against his hungry, yearning, throbbing cock. "This is so embarrassing," she confessed. "Don't look at me, please," she pleaded. "I'm so ashamed." He was not about to do anything now that might disrupt the moment. "I'm getting so close," she gasped. "His fingers feel so good. My pussy is so hot, so wet. He's so, so good." She looked up into his eyes. "You must think I'm so bad." She undid two of his buttons on his shirt and slid her left hand inside, so that she could feel his naked, masculine, hairy chest, and she lustfully clawed, clenched, and clutched his skin. "You're being so kind, so considerate," she whispered. "I know this must be hard for you." She was certainly right about that, but perhaps not in the way she meant. "I know this must be, um, well......exciting you." Apparently she might have meant it that way. She took her hand from his shirt and reached down, farther down, squeezing her hand in between their bodies until she reached the front of his slacks, and felt the very obvious stiff bulge. It was his turn to gasp as he felt her frenzied hand grasp hold of his cock through his slacks. His immediate reaction was to double check to see that nobody was still noticing her, and now him, although he couldn't imagine how anybody would not. It was like she was in heat on the train, wiggling her cunt on the fingers of a guy behind her while she worked the cock of another guy in front of her. It wasn't too often you would see that on a train, and such an anomaly should draw at least some attention. But, frankly, at this point, he didn't want to know. He just wanted to enjoy the pleasure of the feel of her hand clutching, gripping, squeezing, and stroking his cock through his slacks as she gasped breathlessly into his chest, her own big round boobs pressing deep into him, her lovely perfume continuing to tickle his nose, as her bottom wiggled and squirmed on the man's fingering and diddling. And then, much to his surprise, he felt her grasp the zipper of his slacks, pull it down, and slip her hand inside, into his slacks and soon after into the flap of his boxers to grasp in her hand his hard, naked, stiff cock. "Oh my," she said, "You're so big," she gasped. "So big, and hard, and stiff," she moaned as she fondled and stroked his cock within his boxers. "He's fucking me so hard now, he's diddling me so hard." He was himself stunned and speechless, and delighted. His eyes opened wide with shock, and excitement. She even suddenly yanked his cock from his trousers, bringing his hard, stiff naked cock out into the open air, into the viewing eyes of anyone and everyone on the train that might in fact notice, including the seated woman to his left, and openly slid her fist up and down its thick length as she cried and shuddered, "I'm cumming, I'm cumming, I just can't help it, oh my, oh my, oh my," she repeatedly gasped as she fell into him, her body shivering and shuddering with her intense orgasm, her hand pounding and squeezing his cock. The train lurched again as it arrived into Highland Park. Passengers jostled, jogged, and jolted as the train shook, jerked, and rumbled to a stop. The woman pulled herself away from Paul's chest, looked him meekly, apologetically, and shamefully in the eyes, but also gratefully. It seemed to him that hers were among the prettiest and most attractive eyes he had ever seen, at least at that moment, and then she quickly turned around to exit the train, following the tightly packed crowd of commuters as they pushed, pressed, shoved, and squeezed their way out. Paul quickly shifted his briefcase to his front, jamming it against his crotch, against his momentarily exposed erect cock. He glanced hurriedly to his left and right. It did not appear to be the case that anyone had seen it, surprisingly so, although the man standing to his right did appear to have a little smile on his face. He looked to the gentleman who had been fingering the young woman. He had politely let the woman get by him. It was always courteous to let the ladies off the train first. Most men, however, do not display any such consideration. The elder gentleman was a clear exception when it came to manners. Paul expected to see a look of apprehension and fear on his face, worrying that perhaps Paul would turn him into security. Or, perhaps, the complete opposite: a look of arrogant, forceful, threatening defiance, daring him to do or say anything. But, instead, he did not look away in embarrassment, shame, or guilt, nor did he look at all threatening. Instead, he just smiled at Paul, as if they were good friends, as if he knew something that Paul did not know, or was not willing to acknowledge. It was in fact Paul who quickly looked away. He was clearly in the more difficult, vulnerable position, having his erect dick sticking out. Obviously, he would not be contacting security with an erection sticking out of his pants. The gentleman even stepped to the side to let Paul pass, and Paul got into line right behind the woman who had extracted his cock. His eyes went to the back of her dress, to her bottom. She was walking rather awkwardly. She was trying to fix and straighten her skirt as she was moving through the crowded train. Her panties were still bunched up on her thighs, just below her bottom. Her movements would be a bit awkward just from that. Plus, she was probably also a bit weak in the legs. She did not turn around to say goodbye as she got onto the platform. She instead just hurried off. Paul kept his briefcase clutched to his crotch as he got out onto the platform and, as he proceeded to the platform's exit, he took one quick look back. The gentleman got off the train but did not immediately head in any particular direction. Paul could see him still smiling at him as he hurriedly made his way through the crowd to a restroom. Clutching a briefcase to one's crotch was not a particularly effective way at appearing inconspicuous. Not too many persons walk with briefcases jammed against the front of their bodies. He did get a number of quizzical glances, and even a few smirks. He imagined they must figure he spilled some coffee onto an embarrassing location, thinking that he was one if those first-time, inexperienced, novice commuters. Or, even worse, perhaps he did indeed have a bladder accident. But, none of that was worse than actually letting anyone see his hard-on sticking out of his slacks. That would indeed arouse far more problematic reactions than just confusing and amusing glances, to say the least. He moved quickly to a stall in the men's room in the lobby of the station, hoping desperately that nobody he knew would notice him. Imagine if his boss came upon him? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Paul was quite shaken up over that experience. He repeatedly scanned the platform and the train in subsequent days for any sign of the gentleman, or the woman. He could not make sense of it. Perhaps it had been some sort of adult candid camera. But, that was clearly absurd, wasn't it? More likely, he considered, it was some sort of reality show from an adult web site. But, that would be illegal, wouldn't it? For weeks he saw neither the gentleman, nor the woman. But, an understanding was finally attainable, as he again spotted the gentleman. He was sitting on one of the platform benches, waiting for his train to arrive, whatever train that might be, as he hadn't seemed to be particularly consistent in the trains he rode. Paul had arrived early for his own train, and so he immediately approached the man, to confront him. "Excuse me," Paul said, as he sat down next to him. "I believe I know you." The gentleman calmly turned to him, smiled, and said, "Yes, I believe I know you as well." That was not the response that Paul had been expecting. He had expected the man to deny any recognition whatsoever, to say that he must be mistaken, that he must be confusing him with somebody else, that they had never met or seen each other before. Instead, the man quite calmly acknowledged their mutual recognition. Paul though would not be put off. He pursued his point. "You know what I mean. I saw you on that train, with that woman." "You certainly did," he replied, his relaxed, confident smile not wavering. "And, did you enjoy what you saw?" Paul certainly had, having obtained a pretty darned hard erection and he was a briefly derailed by this man turning the question around, as if he was the one who should feel defensive. "You're lucky I didn't have you arrested." "Why didn't you?" "She didn't want the police to become involved." "And, why do you think that was the case?" "It was too embarrassing for her." Somehow he was now the one answering the questions. "Listen, you pull that stunt again and I will have you arrested, no matter what the young lady's preference." "Is it not possible that there is another reason she did not want the security service involved?" Paul was silenced. He had not considered another possibility. He had understood, or assumed, that the first woman was the gentleman's wife, or lover, but this was obviously not the case with the second woman, who clearly did not know the man. He did not understand what he was suggesting, or at least was unable to acknowledge it. "What are you saying?" The distinguished gentleman explained. He stated that she was in fact a quite willing participant, that her protestations to Paul, her embarrassment, her pleas for help and consideration, were not entirely sincere, or at least they were part of her own pleasure, how she enjoyed the act, or the game, as the gentleman preferred to call it. "The game?" Paul replied. "Yes, yes, of course, the game. It's a lovely game that we play, every few weeks or months or so." "You and her?" "Sometimes, but not often. No, no, I have not played our game with her since that last time. There are others though that have played with her before, and since then." "There are others?" He explained further. He indicated that there were indeed many others, all willing participants, members, if you will, of a club, a secret club, a very select society, of men and women who enjoyed this sort of play, this innocent, delightful dalliance. Paul shook his head. He didn't believe it. "Is it really so unusual? There is of course the mile-high club, ocean clubs, nudists, glory hole clubs, swingers, cosplay, all sorts of groups who share particular predilections. Is this really so difficult to imagine?" "Those are not really clubs. It's not like they have meetings, officers, and dues, and stuff." "Actually, some of them in fact do, but a club doesn't need to be so formal to exist. All that one needs are regular, repeating participants who in time begin to recognize each other, develop mutual understandings, a regular routine. In our club, our society, we are actually a bit more formal and controlled, perhaps even regulated, one might say." Paul's skepticism was dissipating, and he was now intrigued. "What do you mean?" "Well, our game is, quite obviously, pretty risky. We risk being observed by others, as you have done, at least twice that I am aware of. There were perhaps other times?" He looked at Paul quizzically, albeit still smiling, to see if he could detect that there had indeed been additional times. When he received no response to his query, he continued. "We must also be very careful, to say the least, to avoid detection by security and, most difficult of all, be careful in the recruitment of new members." The gentleman then proceeded to provide a brief history of the club. He opined that the beginnings of this club began originally in Japan, where crowded buses and trains have been really quite commonplace, and unintentional and intentional frotteurism not that uncommon. The practice slowly spread to other metropolitan locations. The origin within Japan could, though, be only urban legend. Who really knows, for instance, why it was that San Francisco became the haven for homosexuals, or why Dallas is a haven for voyeurists and exhibitionists? In any case, the key to its success was in part to have a degree of organization and structure. The distinguished gentleman was the de facto "president," of the local chapter, or as he preferred to call it, the conductor. His responsibility was in part to select which train, and which car, would serve as their next meeting place. He would leave a ticket stuck to a subway billboard known only to the membership, which provided the identity of the train and car in which they would hold their next "meeting." It was useful to rotate the trains and cars for a number of reasons. It helped to offset the likelihood of detection, either by security or other passengers. It was also helpful to facilitate everyone's chance of participation, at least once in awhile. They were all, for the most part, on their way to work, or (less frequently) on the way home, and as conductor he wanted to be able to accommodate at some point everyone's busy schedule. He was himself self-employed, and so had a quite flexible schedule and could attend most every meeting. Rotating to different trains also increased the chances of finding and recruiting new players. And, finally, if you decided that you did not want to participate that day (or any other day) it was relatively easy to avoid the specific car in which the game that day would be played if the location rotated along different lines. Everyone, of course, was allowed to quit the game at any time. Confining each meeting to one particular car was also important. It allowed the club to load the car with members who would help provide cover. The gentleman explained that the two persons near to Paul, the one standing to his right, the woman sitting to his left, were in fact members of their society, as was another man standing to his left. Their job that day was to help keep the activity hidden from the unsuspecting passengers. The job of providing cover would naturally rotate, although the process of rotation was decided rather informally. The ladies had considerable authority and leeway in making last-minute decisions. In a typical meeting, a female participant would choose her partner, providing him with some sign, some gesture, of her interest in being approached. A requirement of membership, monitored by the conductor (as best he could), was confidentiality and anonymity. Members were discouraged from approaching one another off the train, and from identifying themselves to one another on the train. The conductor could not effectively enforce this rule, but it was apparent that most everyone respected it, as everyone pretty much preferred the anonymity, for obvious reasons. Some female participants did prefer to be chosen. Their interest in participating was simply announced by their presence on the car. These were the ones who especially enjoyed playing the reluctant victim. Of course, the male participants would not necessarily know which woman or women on the car were members, and this added considerable drama, and skill, to the game. One had to literally feel the riders out for their membership, their interest, in being touched, rubbed, fondled, and perhaps even penetrated. Sometimes mistakes would occur, but it wasn't as risky as it sounded. The men erred in the direction of backing away from a woman who did not appear willing. Paul's skepticism began to rise once again. "No, no, I just can't believe that people are willing to do such things. No woman is really willing, or should I say, desiring, to engage in something like this." The man smiled patiently "The naivety of Americans when it comes to sexual play is sometimes really quite amusing." That was a rather personal and perhaps insulting assertion but, frankly, he knew it was true. He did not make an effort to defend his country. "I think you would probably be quite amazed at what a lot of people are doing beneath the radar of general public knowledge or awareness. A few minutes on the internet will open your eyes." He was again right about that. With some trepidation Paul had once surfed the net for aberrant sexual practices, just to see what was out there. It wasn't long before his computer was flooded by various viruses, cookies, and worms but he still learned quite a bit. No matter your interest, you can find others who share that interest, and once there are a group of persons who share a common interest, someone will develop a formal or informal network so that they can share that interest together. An additional responsibility, as conductor, was recruitment. The gentleman explained that it was, naturally, more difficult to recruit female members than males. It was a very delicate skill, to literally feel out a woman's interest in joining the club. One had to proceed in a most heedful, cautious manner. Not surprisingly, a significant proportion of women are not that interested in joining. And, it was not surprising that someone who joined did drop out, some in fact rather quickly. At times the fantasy was much more thrilling than the reality. On the other hand, some eventual recruits at first expressed considerable reluctance but eventually became quite enthusiastic participants. Recruiting new males also had its own caveats. On the one hand, it was not that difficult to find men interested in participating, at least a few times. But, it was important to recruit men who would be skilled, who would be respectful of the ladies, who would be conscientious and responsible, and who would be discreet. The society was no stronger than its weakest link. "And," Paul inquired, "is the club currently strong?" "Well, yes, at the moment. There have been some mistakes, some slip-ups, in the past, but at the moment everything is running fairly smoothly." "And, so, that's why you're here now? The next meeting will be on my train?" "Actually, no. I am here to invite you to join, to become an active member." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Paul had said no. It sounded way too risky, way too dangerous. After all, what they were doing was illegal, even if everyone, including the women, were willing participants. They could, he could, get arrested, at least for public indecency, and he certainly didn't need that on his record, or in the newspaper. But, as the days passed he became more interested, more intrigued. The gentleman had not appeared surprised or troubled by Paul's declination. He just gave him that knowing smile and told him where the time and place of the meetings is announced, knowing full well that he was providing Paul with the information needed to have their meeting raided, to have them arrested, but also knowing, confidently, that Paul would not do that, and would in fact eventually attend, and join. Riding Coach Two and a half weeks after being invited, Paul perused the carefully wedged ticket on a large billboard by the entrance to Metro Center, the ticket identifying the time and location of the next meeting. It was for two weeks from now. The gentleman had said that the meetings were not frequent and were announced well in advance so that everyone who wished to attend could adjust their schedules. It was not a train that he normally rode. In fact, he would have to take a very early train out of Memorial Park (where he lived) and go past Highland Park (where he worked) to Union Station, and then switch to the Red Line to get to Metro Center, and then switch to the Blue Line to get on the designated train. He would be well late for work by the time he did all that and then retrace his steps back to Highland Park. And, it was an even pretty extensive route along the Blue Line, all the way down to Anaheim. The game, of course, needed long rides to be optimally successful. Paul's heart was racing as he contemplated taking the ride. He would be late for work, considerably late, but his cock swelled in his pants, and it led him on that day to central station. When he arrived at Metro Center and took his place on the platform to wait for the Blue Line run down to Anaheim, he didn't see the gentleman, nor did he see the woman. He counted the number of cars as the train arrived, and got on the third one, as the ticket had indicated, wondering if this perhaps had all been some sort of ruse on the gentleman's part, a joke he had been playing, or a con he had pulled to avoid being turned into security. Perhaps the gentleman was now long gone. Paul's cock shrunk as he could feel the disappointment, and embarrassment, at having been so readily fooled. He felt himself being pushed deeper and deeper into the car. He would now be terribly late for work, and for no real good reason. He ruefully felt the train pull away. He sighed deeply with frustration, realizing that he would now have to suffer even more uncomfortable crowding in this day's commute to work, having to first ride this train all the way to the next stop and back again. "Excuse me, I'm so sorry," she said, as she pushed, or more accurately, squeezed and crammed her way in between him and the window. He preferred to stand by a window, as it did help somewhat with the claustrophobic crowding. She said, "I so much prefer the window, it does at least help with the claustrophobic crowding, don't you think?" He thought, 'Yes, I do very much think that, which is why I was there before you squeezed me out of the way, thank you very much,' but he just smiled, politely. She was at least attractive. He knew it was sexist, and wrong, to realize that his reaction would have been much worse if she was unattractive, but it was true that attractive persons do tend to get away with a number of things. He sighed deeply. The train lurched as it departed, and he felt his crotch bump hard against her bottom. "Excuse me," he said, and tried to move back, but the man behind him had moved forward, and he really didn't want the man's crotch cramming into his own butt. The pretty woman looked back at him, smiled sweetly, and replied, "Don't worry." He smiled back but quickly looked away. He could not but think of his talk with the gentleman, and the notion that there were persons on trains who actively pursued this sort of frotteurism, and how nice it might be to attempt such a thing with this very appealing woman. She did have a nice soft, round, perky bottom, one that did feel rather nice against his crotch. His heart raced as he contemplated actually trying it, trying to get away with fondling this woman on a public train, and then quickly regained his self-control when he realized how dangerous such an activity really could be, would be. Imagine being arrested and offering in your defense that there had been an elder gentleman that told you of a club of willing participants. It didn't help though when he felt the woman's bottom rubbing against him. The train was naturally jolting left and right as it rumbled along. Nobody could actually stand perfectly still, but it didn't feel like this woman was even trying to remain stationary. Rather than trying to avoid rubbing her butt against him she in fact seemed to be pressing her butt into him, and even softly grinding against him in a manner that really did appear to be quite independent of the movements of the train. Normally he would politely back away, assuming that there was in fact no intention behind her movements, wishing to avoid any embarrassing, awkward confrontation. But, he was now intrigued by the possibility that such an experience might in fact be possible. He would at least not actively resist, and possibly passively participate. So he stood his ground, and enjoyed the innocent, subtle lap dance, which was really quite nice as she was wearing a rather loose (and short) cotton skirt. He was himself wearing loose boxers, and so there was really very little in between them. It did not take him long to respond. Any normal healthy male would respond to a lap dance, even one being provided by a woman wearing a skirt, perhaps even more so when it is being provided on a public train, by a perfect stranger, and a rather pretty one with a very delectably round soft petite tush. However, with his growing erection he felt that he should probably back away. A flirtatious wiggling of her bottom against him doesn't mean that she really wants to have his hard dick stuck up against her butt, and there was nothing innocent about an erection. He started to shift his body to the right so that it would be his hip pressed up against her bottom, rather than his crotch, but before he could move she apparently dropped something as she bent over to pick it up. Bending over to pick something up on one of these grossly crowded trains was always a difficult exercise. He would often simply ignore the loss of some change or a pen rather than struggle with squeezing through legs and reaching around on the dirty floor. He did enjoy observing the occasional fall of a someone else's cell phone, and was sorely tempted once to "accidentally" step on one that fell close to his feet, or at least "accidentally" kick it away. In any case, as this woman reached for whatever she seemed to have dropped, she forcefully, perhaps even lewdly, thrust her bottom hard into his crotch. If he had been a gentleman he would have given her more room, if he had any room to give. If they had been naked, the implication would have been clear. Actually, if they had been naked there would have been no implication. It would have been quite explicit what she was requesting of this buck in the herd on the train. Paul's dick swelled to new heights and his boxers provided considerable room and comfort for the growth of his cock. There had to be little doubt that she could feel his stiffness through her skirt as her upraised bottom pressed and wiggled against his stiff dick, now quite explicitly poking out his slacks. Paul recalled the first time he got a real full contact lap dance. He had been concerned that the girls would be offended by his erection, that it was the male's job, his courtesy, at a strip club not to become aroused, not to debase the stripper by losing control of himself and forcing her to make contact with an erection. But, on the contrary, the girl appeared to be delighted by its presence, and thereafter focused much of her attention on the bulge, using her bottom and her breasts, and sometimes even her fingers and lips, to keep it going, encouraging it to get stiffer and stiffer and stiffer, more and more excited, until, as she said, he had a "happy ending" to her dance. Needless to say, he left the club with a quite noticeable wet stain in his pants. The next time he came (literally) prepared, wearing a sweater that fell down over his crotch to hide any such effect. Plus, of course, he wore looser clothes. However, he also discovered that the girls varied tremendously in how much they were willing to do. He only rarely found a girl who would use her hand, and the ones who used their mouths would stay there only briefly. He typically got off through the rubbing of breasts or bottom, but that was always still pretty darned nice. It was at times quite difficult though to tell who was willing to provide him with a happy ending and who simply provided air dances. Even the air dancing girls would try to get him into the VIP room, suggesting that they would do much more but never really explicitly indicating what that might be. Well, at the moment, this woman's body language did appear to suggest a willingness to provide a happy ending. As she stood back up she looked back at him, her face a little flushed, and said, "My keys, can't lose those." "No, no," he replied, his face also reddening, realizing that perhaps he might in fact have misunderstood after all. His heart was racing. What was he supposed to do now? He knew what he would like to do. What he would like to do was to pull out his stiff cock, lift up her skirt, pull down her panties, bend her over, and drive his dick up her tight, wet cunt. But, he suspected that would probably be going too far. Heck, one couldn't even do that at a gentleman's club, even in the VIP rooms. What is the polite, correct move at this point? Emily Post never offered any advice about this. Nor did it help clarify matters that when she stood back up she twisted around, jostling shoulders against arms, to turn to face him, her breasts rising up as she reached up to hold onto the steel bar above them. She was only a bit shorter than him, and her pretty brown eyes, sparkling beneath her fluttering lashes, looked gaily directly into his. "I think this is a bit more comfortable, don't you?" "Yes, yes," he clumsily replied, feeling now very confused. It wasn't really more comfortable and, frankly, he missed the soft touch of her round bottom. Clearly her soft tush was no longer an option. "Here," she said, reaching out with her left hand to take hold of his briefcase. "You only have two hands, you know." She dropped it down in between her legs, and his. "If you want it, you can reach down and get it." Paul could feel a rising anxiety. Apparently he was supposed to initiate the action. That was what she was saying, wasn't it? Still, though, she didn't actually say 'Touch me,' and this was a communication that one didn't want to misinterpret. It was like being at a strip club where some proportion of the girls aren't strippers and you're supposed to figure out how to get a lap dance without explicitly asking? How would that work? He hesitated. It was one thing to be the passive recipient in the game, the club, or whatever it was. It was quite another to be the active member, to be the one who initiated the action. Actually, he hadn't really initiated the action. If it wasn't for her, nothing would have happened at all. He couldn't imagine actually initiating such an activity cold, with no obvious sign that it would be welcomed. If he did anything he would be the one who looked like he was fondling, accosting, molesting, someone on the train. She slid up closer to him, pressing her soft round breasts against his chest. "Hurry," she whispered, "I'm getting off in two stops." She was right. He really shouldn't waste any time. He took hold of the steel bar with his right hand and let go with his left. He would usually use his right hand for something like this, but his left hand, his left side, was more hidden from view. As he brought his hand down he let it lightly, briefly, brush along her right breast. She smiled and sighed as she felt the momentary contact with her breast. He drew his hand further down her body, his eyes fixed on hers, watching for any sign that he was stepping out of line. When he reached the front of her skirt, he stopped, and rested his hand there, against her thigh. The expression in her eyes shifted from a twinkling flirtation to an anxious apprehension. She asked, "Oh my goodness, sir, do you know where your fingers are?" He experienced a brief moment of doubt, of uncertainty, but it went away as quickly as it had come. "I am sorry," he calmly responded, as calm as he could feel under the circumstances, "it is a bit crowded today." "Your hand, sir," she responded, "please, your fingers." She spoke very softly, "You're touching my thigh." "I am sorry," he replied. He moved his hand, but he in fact shifted more to the right, to the front of her skirt, so that his fingers were now pressed against the soft rise of her mound, through her skirt and panties. "Please, sir!" She admonished, her eyes opening wide in shock. Speaking quite softly, so that only his ears would be aware, "You are obviously no gentleman." No, he certainly was not. Paul looked briefly around. They were against the windows to his left, and she was pressed up close enough to him that only the person to his right could really see the location and movements of his hand. The stranger was facing them, but he was intently reading some novel (Murder on the Orient Express). If eyes wandered at all, he would see very well what Paul was up to, and his eyes would certainly pick up his movements in his peripheral vision. Paul would soon find out if he was part of the club. He cupped the lady's mound with his fingers through her skirt. "Oh my goodness!" She softly exclaimed, pressing herself in more closely against him, helping to further hide the indelicacy of his action, as well as to press her breasts against his chest. Her breasts were not large, but they were still, of course, quite pleasant to the feel, as was the mound of her cunt. He could even feel the warmth through her panties and skirt. It was perhaps an odd way to embrace a woman. It felt like when a guy (or a woman) grabs another guy by the balls, to capture and control him. He had this woman now captured, gripping her by her cunt. "Please sir," she whispered more loudly, "don't hurt me." He glanced again at the guy to his right. He must have heard what she said, but he didn't appear to be at all concerned or even aware. Paul did though let go of the lady's cunt. She appeared to sigh with relief, and relax against him. But, he had let go only to slip his hand under her skirt, to get at her panties. "Oh my goodness, sir," she again exclaimed, clutching his right shoulder with her hand, her small, delicate purse hanging from her wrist, pressing her face into his shoulder, hiding her face in embarrassment as his hand made its way under her skirt and to the front of her panties, to her pussy. "Please," she implored, "not here, not on the train. What if somebody sees you?" Her protestations were clearly part of her fun, her game, the way she enjoyed playing it, and obviously not at all dissimilar to the reactions, the play, of the woman he had previously observed, and experienced. He smiled, in pleasure, and in the spirit of their mutual role play. He was the man in control, able to play with and use this woman as he saw fit. His heart was racing. His was not a particularly undesirable role, and this was one enjoyable game. His cock was as stiff as it could get, and so clearly jutting out the front of his slacks, inspired to its total hardness by the feel of the complementary softness of the woman's mound. He again glanced to the side to see if he was being noticed. After all, he did have his hand beneath a lady's skirt, feeling and stimulating her cunt through her panties. He explored the gentle curves of her pussy with the tips of fingers, sliding them around and over the surface of her soft, warm, cotton panties, feeling his way down, down her slit and then back up again, curiously exploring the feel of her womanly lips through the thin, now moist fabric, up and down her wet lips, at times resting on the notable nub at the top, pausing there to press a bit more firmly, rubbing his fingers around and around in a tight circle, gently but firmly working on her clit. The woman pulled back from Paul's shoulder, hiding her face only briefly there, as such an embrace could certainly attract some unwanted attention. She let go of his shoulder and dropped her hand to her side. It was though quite difficult to just stand there expressionless, holding onto the steel bar above her while this man fondled and worked her pussy and clit beneath her skirt. Her natural reaction, her instinct, was to gasp and whimper with arousal, but she had to maintain her composure, to act as if nothing at all was happening, when in fact her pussy was inflamed, seething, burning with excitement. She was not entirely successful in her effort to act natural and composed. Any person who looked closely could tell that something did seem to be wrong with, or very right with, this woman. Her lips at times quivered, her eyes looked a bit agitated, her lashes fluttered, her face seemed a bit flushed, her tongue would occasionally appear, licking her lips, her teeth at times biting down on her lower lip. This was not a woman who was calm and at ease. On the contrary, this was a woman who was far from it yet was clearly struggling to appear that way. Paul could certainly see this, and found it very pleasing and satisfying. A man always enjoys making a woman aroused and excited. There is perhaps no skill for which a man takes greater pride than in making a woman lustfully excited. Yes, being able to fix the leak under the kitchen sink, to rewire an electrical outlet, and to patch the vinyl siding, were all very good reasons to pump up and pound one's chest in manly pride, but making her squirm with excitement in bed, turning that prim and proper puritanically prudish, even prissy, demeanor into a quivering, writhing lustful slut, was a qualitatively greater accomplishment. That was the mark of a man. The woman even expressed her appreciation by reaching out again with her left hand, but this time to grasp hold of his knob through his slacks. Paul sighed with his own appreciation and delight at the feel of the woman's fingers grabbing hold of the bulb of his cock. He would have been happy to just bring her off. After all, this was his first official ride in the club. He should defer to the lady. But, apparently, he was going to cum along for the ride as well. He nervously glanced to his right, but the man continued to appear intently absorbed in the Orient Express. Paul nevertheless did feel some considerable apprehension, for if the man's arm lurched with a sudden turn of the train, he could not really avoid seeing what was going on just a few feet below his eyes. Paul assumed that he must be a member of the club, but he was not entirely certain, and that doubt added a layer of fear, of excitement, to what was already pretty darned exhilarating. The woman though knew that the man to her left would do his best to help keep them hidden. She knew he was a member of the club. She had not only seen him before, but she had previously danced with him, and had enjoyed it very much. She would have gladly chosen him again if she had not found this new person. She generally preferred new partners, as the more the person was a stranger, the more stimulating the experience, the encounter, would be. A new person was so much less predictable, and the outcomes so unique and varied. The play just never seemed to get old, at least not yet. She tickled her new partner's knob with her thumb, rubbing it around and around as he in turn rubbed her clit around and around. Her bottom instinctively twitched and squirmed, ever so slightly. Paul could feel the sperm churning in his balls. It was really quite invigorating, quite inflaming, quite arousing, to feel that you are fully in charge of someone, that you can tell a girl, a pretty woman, to do something, and that she would have to do it. He had never really had this sort of power before, and he could feel it going to his balls, as well as to his head. He removed his hand from beneath her skirt and said quietly but assertively, "Pull your panties down."