Strangers on a Train I

by Nelle L'Amour

  “Oh baby, what you do to me,” he groaned, his voice an octave deeper and sexy beyond belief.

  “Don’t stop,” I pleaded, my voice breathy, my mouth dry.

  “Don’t worry.”

  He planted his thumb back on my clit and massaged it vigorously as his member glided up and down my flooded tunnel, hitting that mega-spot again and again. My temperature was rising. Sweat was pouring out of every crevice of my body. Squeezing my legs tighter around him, I closed my eyes to savor the unbearable pleasure this gorgeous beast was giving me.

  “Are you on birth control?” The words drifted through my head, not expecting them. I managed a throaty “yeah” as he thrust his member once again into my tunnel of joy. I had been on the pill for several years due to my irregular cycle.

  “Good, baby,” he murmured in my ear. He yanked back my head by my ponytail and rolled his hot, velvety tongue up my neck. So, this was my reward for the right answer. The sensation drove me crazy. I felt like a puppy being scratched in her favorite spot.

  He accelerated his pace, of both the banging and massaging. Whimpering, I didn’t think I could take it anymore. My sex throbbed as a wildfire raced through my body, shamelessly kindling every nerve inside me, from my head to my toes. I was about to implode.

  Without warning, I felt him exploding. “Oh, Saarah,” he groaned, drawing out my name. I convulsed around him, my own deep explosion sending waves of ecstasy throughout me. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I wasn’t sure if I was saying the words aloud or screaming them silently in my head. What was happening to me? I had never had such a mind-blowing experience.

  Slowly, he pulled out of me. I was surprised at how big and rigid his now glistening member still was. He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, cleaned himself up, and then adjusted his pants over his thick length. I don’t think he was wearing underwear either.

  “Saarah,” he said as he zipped up his fly. “Do you still have to pee?”

  “Yes,” I stammered, as I pulled up the remains of my pantyhose and slipped on my skirt. I was shaking, dazed, and drained from his plundering.

  Trainman rolled his eyes and then let me pee in peace. And privacy.

  After latching the door, I got back dressed and sat on the toilet longer than I needed to. Tremors tore through me. I gazed down at a big rip in my pantyhose, in the so-called “reinforced” crotch area. A translucent, creamy substance coated my inner thighs. The events that had just happened reeled around in my head while orgasmic vibrations were still coming at me with recklessness of a rockslide. Why did I let myself do this? Why? Neediness? Insecurity? Maybe a desperate escape from the anguish my dying mother was causing? Or just because this man was the sexiest member of the opposite sex I’d ever laid my eyes on? Finally, I tore off a generous piece of toilet paper and wiped by bottom from front to back just like my mother had taught me. A translucent layer of ruby-veined semen clustered on the soft white paper. I was bleeding. Reality hit me like a brick. I had just lost my virginity to a stranger on a train.

  In a state of mild shock, I slowly raised myself from the toilet, pulled up my damp, crotchless hose, and washed my hands in the sink that now held so many memories for me. I splattered a little of the cold water on my face and sipped some from my hands to quench my parched mouth. For the first time, I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection startled me. My hair was disheveled; my big brown eyes half-moons, and my full-lipped mouth locked in a parted pout. I was no longer the girl who only minutes ago had almost been squished by a pair of automatic train doors. I looked like a woman. A woman who had just been fucked. Big time.

  Hastily, I fixed my ponytail and threw some more water on my face. I glimpsed myself again in the mirror. Not too much better, but, at least, better. Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the door and made my way back to my seat. My body was quivering. Especially the part between my inner thighs.

  Trainman smiled when he saw me. I was shocked by how put together he looked, his golden hair neatly back in place and his blue eyes twinkling. Maybe he was a pro at this—snacking on some nice innocent girl on his ride home.

  This time in true gentleman fashion, he rose from his seat and let me sidle to mine with a modicum of grace. We were back to sitting side by side.

  As the speeding train passed through different neighborhoods, from the poorest to the toniest, we shared a self-imposed silence. Whatever we were thinking in our heads was enough to keep us entertained. I wondered… who was this man… what did he do… why did he choose me? Words stayed trapped in my throat. I swiveled my head sideways and stared at his gorgeous, high-cheekboned profile that showed off his long eyelashes, strong chin, and fine Roman nose. What was he thinking? The impassioned look on his face made his thoughts unreadable, and it frustrated me.

  The delicious, constant throbbing inside me would not die down, and in fact, intensified with the friction of the zooming train over the tracks. Overwhelmed with a mixture of bewilderment, awe, and a touch of guilt, my eyelids grew heavy. I set my comfy leather chair into a reclining position while Trainman pulled out his iPhone from his briefcase and caught up on emails. His skilled hands moved quickly on the touch screen keyboard. God, he was good with those fingers! Unable to read what he was writing, I peered out the window and soaked in the scenery. Before long, I could no longer keep my eyes open and drifted off.

  “Last stop, New York Penn Station.” The loud announcement woke me with a startle. I blinked open my eyes, to find my head resting on Trainman’s broad shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself.

  “Don’t be.” He gave me a quick dimpled smile that rendered me breathless.

  He helped me to my feet. “Ladies first.”

  As I side-stepped past him and made my way to the automatic sliding doors, the sinking feeling that I might never see him again set in.

  Penn Station was stinking hot and bustling with commuters and tourists, and it wasn’t even summer yet. It tasted, smelled, and sounded like 30th Street Station’s ugly stepsister. Trainman clasped my hand as we wove our way in and out of the bustling crowd of rush hour commuters and ubiquitous homeless. His hand was warm, the grip firm but not too tight. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, his stride a blend of grace and arrogance. He was clearly an expert on manipulating this oppressive swarm of people. Despite having lived in the city for almost two years and taking my share of subways, I had yet to master the ruthless New Yorkers always in a hurry to get where they were going.

  Half way through the station, a sharp tug from behind me followed by a forceful shove sent me crashing to the filthy Penn Station floor. Dazed, I caught my assailant, a skinny Latino youth, running through the crowd with my bag. My life! My cell phone! My wallet! My identity! And the cash I needed to get through the weekend!

  “Little fucker!” yelled Trainman, taking off in hot pursuit.

  Staggering to my feet, my eyes could not believe the speed with which his long legs carried him. It was like watching a scene from Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise or some stunt double running after the bad guy. My assailant glanced back at Trainman, panic washing over his face as he saw my action hero gaining ground. Even as the bad guy picked up speed, the gap narrowed until Trainman pounced him, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay sprawled on the floor, between Trainman’s powerful straddled knees, his face frozen with fear.

  I hurried toward them. Gripping the lad by a clump of his greasy ebony hair, Trainman yanked him to his feet. The boy was shaking and near tears, and I was taken by how slight he was compared to my tall, mighty, broad-shouldered hero. The boy surrendered my bag and defensively raised both hands, clearly afraid that his captor might strike him. Still clasping his hair, Trainman lifted the youth until his Nikes no longer touched the ground. The boy grimaced in pain. And then Trainman lowered him. I was close enough to hear Trainman growl, “Now, get the fuck out here.” He released the boy, who, wasting no time, sprinted through the crowd without looking back.
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  Trainman wheeled around, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on me. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was shaking—unsure if it was from the shock of being violated or the shock that this gorgeous man had risked his life for me—I mean, the kid could have had a knife. Taking long strides, he headed my way.

  “You okay?” he asked, his blue eyes surveying every inch of my body.

  “Yeah,” I managed. Glancing down, I noticed that there were patches of dust on my calf-length beige skirt. My right knee hurt from the fall. I lifted up the hem of the skirt to check it out. No blood. Just a large hole in my pantyhose—though it was a mere fraction of the hole between my crotch. Embarrassment crept through me.

  Ari handed me my bag, intact and in one piece. “Hold on to this,” he said, his frown curling into a wry, but oh-so-sexy smile.

  I quirked a quick smile back. My gaze met his once again, and I was immediately aware of the waves of ecstasy crashing against my pelvis. My heart thudded. Thank goodness the hum of the crowded station drowned out the sound in my ears.

  “I’m having drinks with someone,” he said.

  He needed to say no more. He was meeting some gorgeous supermodel. The type of woman he belonged with. My heart sunk. It was time for my exit line.

  “Um, okay,” I spluttered. “Thanks for everything.” Yes, everything.

  Without saying good-bye, I hastily headed toward an Exit sign. I walked blindly through the throng of rush-hour commuters and homeless, brushing up against more than I wanted. It was over. My scenes from a movie were over. I didn’t even know a thing about him. His last name. Where he lived. What he did. What did it matter? I’d probably never see him again. It was just a fluke thing that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I shrugged my shoulders and inwardly sighed. Yet, there was so much of me that kept hoping I would feel his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me dead in my tracks. Spinning me around. Pulling my head back with a yank of my ponytail. Sinking his lips into mine and then parting them with his tongue, inviting me for a smoochy dance right in the middle of Penn Station. That’s what happened in movies. With wishful thinking, I stole a glance backward. Trainman was hugging a tall, shapely, drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a chic suit. Just his type. I hastily pivoted around and quickened my pace. Why was I fooling myself? My West Side Story was a dream. My life was a reality show. A really lame reality show.

  2

  I DECIDED TO WALK HOME FROM Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing in my groin area kept me in a fog. Trainman’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin” as Lauren sarcastically called me made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I had twinges of regret that it had happened with that Adonis. A stranger on a train.

  Mounting the five-step landing that led to my brownstone apartment, I dug deep into my messenger bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled, thinking about the possibilities.

  I jiggled the keys into the double metal locks, struggling with one after another. It was a royal pain in the butt to open the front door, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood which was still considered a little seedy.

  Once inside, I used a tiny a key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished metal mailboxes that lined the chipped entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. Blumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress who always had a story about her song and dance days to tell me and was convinced she was related to the mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a pizzeria and was always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.

  Bills. Bills. And more bills. Including one from The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about never seeing Trainman again.

  Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing member deep inside me. I wanted it go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.

  Breathing heavily, I unlocked the double locks of my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, the sweet black cat I was caring for while his (her?—I wasn’t sure) true owner, a flamboyant singing-dancing transvestite, partook in year-long tour of La Cage Aux Folles, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed.

  The flat, a railroad apartment, was small but pleasant. I was lucky to have found it on Craigslist. It was rent-controlled, so I wasn’t paying much, and the tenant even gave me a small break for looking after Jo-Jo. The only thing odd about the apartment was that the walls were painted hot pink, and there was a large framed photo of Josephine Baker (the inspiration for kitty’s name?) above the pseudo-Victorian sofa. The other flea market finds that filled the apartment gave it a quirky charm that appealed to me.

  Jo-Jo followed me into the small galley kitchen, where I proceeded to open a can of Fancy Feast and put it into his special bowl on the Formica counter. I’d better check my phone messages; it had been a while.

  I pushed play on the answering machine that sat on the other end of the counter. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “What are you wearing? Remember, my cotillion friends are coming.” CLICK. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “Guess what! Taylor is taking me to the Hamptons.” CLICK. Lauren: “Call me!” CLICK. Lauren: “FYI, your cell phone is turned off.”

  No more messages. My heart sunk. So much of me wanted to hear Trainman’s sultry voice. “Saarah. Call me. I want to make you wet and fuck your brains out.”

  Stop it, Sarah! I silently chided. He was probably already bedding that beautiful redhead. And he had no idea where I lived or how to get in touch with me. Chances were I’d never see or hear from him again. Yet, the raw aching I felt for this man continued to consume me.

  Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at her at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park at 7:30. As I reached for my phone, the buzzer on my intercom sounded. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be someone serving me for non-payment of bills. Or even worse, some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Nervously, I pressed the button and talked into the intercom. “Yes?” My voice trailed off.

  “Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.

  That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless my new evil boss had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not one bit happy about it. So, this was her revenge.

  I pushed the button on the intercom that unlocked the front door. “Just leave it on the stairs.”

  “You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.

  “Fine. I’ll be right down.”

  Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. The aftershocks of my orgasm meas
ured 6.0 on the “I can come” scale.

  Waiting for me at the base of the staircase was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me.

  “Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt. Sure enough my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and this was her way of sending me a message.

  Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight-ass jeans and some Roberto Cavalli bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.

  Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street CEO, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.

  The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time my new bitch boss sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap version of bohemian whatever, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed and scented women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.