I should be ashamed. But I’m not.

It’s been six months since it happened; and up until now, I’ve kept my mouth shut. Now, I’ve chosen to be bold. Why? Well, it’s my resolution for 2015: to hell with what people think. I resolved to chase my worries with an imaginary lick of salt and a virtual shot of Patron, throwing all inhibitions over my shoulder. (Yes, I’m still trying to convince myself; it’s a work in progress.) By the way, this is a true story – hence the declarations. Some may condemn my activities, and I hate to be curt, but frankly, I don’t give a shit, because the experience was well worth any potential fall-out.

Buckle your seat belt and brace for impact – Train is coming.

~~~
My selection was poor and classless, because I was in a hurry that morning.

I knew I’d be chained to my desk all day and visible to few colleagues, so I chose skimpy material to cover my bosom and even scantier fabric to cover my bum. It was just too damn hot for anything more. Areola shone through the cotton of my bra and blouse. I wore a brown flouncy skirt and peep toe pumps in an attempt to fulfill the company dress code. But the sheerness crossed the line of professionalism, and I knew it.

What I didn’t know body language told me. My co-workers, the men and some women, gawked with appreciation whilst others shook their heads in disapproval. Thankfully, there was no room for judgment on that late afternoon train home.

Coolness comforted my sun-scorched skin as I descended from the street down into the concrete subway tunnel at Metro Center. The breeze surfed up the escalator, caught my skirt, and exposed my intimates. The attention whore in me was disappointed, because my accidental flash antics gained no notice from what I could see. After scanning the station, it was obvious that something was definitely wrong.

The platform was easily ten folks deep with faces plastered to their cell phones. I stood there waiting for an announcement giving a clue as to what was happening, but there was nothing said. So, I made my way as close as I could get to the edge of the platform. It had been a long day, and I just wanted to get home. I could’ve waited, but I had to make it onto the next train. Yeah, my patience is another work in progress.

Patience has been a struggle all my life. Christian ministers litter my family tree from as far back as its official documentation. My father and all his brothers are ministers, and my mother’s side is no less light in the occupation. This pack of do-rights, the village, saw to my having as strict an upbringing as humanly possible. I’d made a vow to my father to save it, my deflowering, for my husband. God knows I tried. However, temptation won every time. The forbidden anticipation, the arousal slick during masturbation, and the verboten finger penetration only intensified my desire to experience fornication. Ever since my girl on girl romp with my first girlfriend, who shall remain nameless, it’s been hard to cease my wild child behavior. Trust, that day on the train, consistency of character wasn’t lost.

After twenty minutes of listening to riders moan and bitch, the train finally arrived. It would’ve been too much like right for the doors to open before me; instead, I found myself mid-car standing in front of a window. So, I held tight to my shoulder bag and pushed my way inside. I was one of the last riders to make it onto the car. It was a squeeze when the doors shut. At that moment, I resented my impatience.

Backs and sides of bodies surrounded us; it was standing room only. The crowd smashed us body-to-body. He had me wedged between a plexiglass divider and his antagonist. Without my knowing his name or his destination, he took liberties to press into my sex.

“Sorry about this. I would move if I could, but there’s no where for me to go,” was the extent of his spearmint-scented apology. “Since we’re in each other’s personal space, may I ask your name?”

“Cinnamon,” I lied as I shoved a peppermint Tic Tac in my mouth.

“Not your stripper name, silly, your government name, ” he chuckled and inquired.

He had a gorgeous smile that looked as if he spent plenty on orthodontia. His teeth matched the white of his pocket square. He seemed cocky, so I had to check him.

“That’s funny?” I lifted my right eyebrow.

“I thought so,” he confessed with a flushed face.

“Far from.”

“No sense of humor...okay. My apologies, Cinnamon.”

“What’s your name? No, wait. Don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know,” another lie.

“I’ve seen you before.”

“Yes, I’ve seen you too.”

“You are a beautiful woman.”

“Do you know why the trains were delayed?” This was my effort to change the subject. The combination of his proximity and his compliment was slightly awkward.

“I heard there was some sort of electrical problem. You are stunning.”

One whiff of his pheromone inducing fragrance had my blush burning. He was fine – hella good-looking. He stood a half of a head above my five foot eight inch frame with dark tanned skin, grey eyes, and brown hair. Although we’d exchanged smiles and a few nods on previous train trips, we never formally introduced ourselves, nor did we swap shoptalk. Our chatter on that day narrowed the communication chasm...somewhat. My resentment relaxed...somewhat.

“Thanks,” I nodded and smiled. “I’m glad Metro got the issue resolved.”

The doors closed, and the train accelerated. Not more than three minutes later, there was a loud boom and complete darkness. The wheel clacking came to an abrupt, squealing halt.

“Aw,” we all sighed in unison. I didn’t know it at the time, but this forlorn riders’ cry was the soundtrack for the next hour.

I believed the inconvenience would be brief; unfortunately, that was not the case. Dim emergency lighting colored the darkness light black. In less than a half hour, the freezing train air dissolved as uncomfortable shifted to unbearable.

The car we’d bunched on was a humid hot box. The aroma of desperation mingled with anticipation, and the boil rose. Silently incensed, I felt the heat intensifying around my neck. It wasn’t long before perspiration beads formed on my upper lip and that crease between my boobies. My clothes were sticking to my body.

The squash made the smallest movements huge. Loin presses into my vee grew from mild to wild. His broad chest brushed against my top causing my nipples to tingle and extend; his micro dance was brilliant in exposing my arousal. He stopped for a moment to fiddle with his goods, and then I felt his fingers crawling underneath my skirt. He took full advantage of the darkness while I was caught in disbelief. He reached around and palmed my ass. One quick adjustment later, he pushed my thong to the side and swiped my pouty lips.

“What the fuck,” I whispered. My fight was fixed; my flight was frozen.

“Cinnamon has a healthy labia - not at all as I’d imagined,” he spoke directly in my ear while his fingers lingered on my swell. The lust leaking from his breath melted my will and made me ooze.

“You can’t do this. I don’t know you. Stop, or I’m gonna scream.” I wriggled my hips in an attempt to get away from his wandering fingers that felt more like octopus tentacles.

“Oh, you’re gonna cream?”

“I said scream, bastard. Get your hands off me,” I firmly but quietly urged through gritted teeth.

The nameless one pressed his fingers into my oozing and continued speaking in a hushed, non-threatening tone. “No, I won’t... and you won’t object. Let me tell you what I know for sure. You want to get it on this train in front of all these people without their knowledge. Fucking in public...that’s your fantasy, isn’t it?”

When least expected, opportunity will come for you, won’t it? Six months of writing filthy fictitious stories and years of masturbating to public-sex fantasies came to check the reading on my freak-meter.

The responsibleness in me resisted; I was a grown woman. The wetness in me wanted; hell, I was a grown woman. Nevertheless, I offered a justified push back.

“I don’t know you.”

“Makes it all the more interesting, does it not?”

Ugh, it did. But I didn’t dare admit it to him. “Is this frequent behavior for you?”

“Interviewing me for a potential husband?”

“No. Hell no.”

“Why so many questions? Just say yes,” he laughed as he conquered my slit.

“It’s a smoking oven in here, isn’t it? Can someone get a window open?” quizzed a random rider.

“I said no. Listen, you couldn’t do it if you wanted to,” I challenged.

“Oh never tell me what I can’t do, pretty lady.”

“We’re smashed together like chronic in a doobie.”

“Well I’m about to light it up.”

“Damn.”

“Potty mouth. If you’re game say yes.”

“No, the windows are sealed shut. But we can try to open a door,” answered a sitting subway sufferer.

He seemed determined to get my consent. Had he dropped his head down just a bit, our lips would’ve touched. But he didn’t dare initiate a kiss; morality forced him to wait on an answer. His wait for me to lean in and meet his lips giving consent was noisy and unrelenting.

“Do you want me to continue? Because that liquid rolling down your gam is saying yes,” his spearmint-scented breath seemed to belong to me.

“I’ll try to work my way to a door,” the sitting subway sufferer added.

“My perspiration is saying yes?”

“No, I’ll try the door. I’m right here. Stay where you are, so you don’t have to trip over folks,” stated a standing subway sufferer.

“Your honey is saying yes,” he answered as two fingers opened my wings in search of my clit.

“This is foolish. You’re crazy.”

The murmur on the train was growing and so was his third leg. He let go of me, unzipped his pants, and wrestled his growth from beneath his pant opening. Nameless introduced my hand to his motivator. “Does this feel crazy?”

As senseless as it was, my hand was game. My box was willing. But my mind wasn’t convinced. Still, I grasped him to trace the length and girth; I had to assess the risk and familiarize myself with his brand of crazy. I needed to know if his crazy was generic or premium lunacy. His smoothness and curve would hit my insides just right. His thickness and span seemed more than sufficient. His was a premium lunacy. Still, my mind wasn’t convinced.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Say yes,” he insisted while diddling my diamond.

“Oh my god! When are they gonna get this death trap moving,” shouted another random aggravated rider.

Spooked, I inquired, “What happens if the train starts moving and the lights come back on?”

“Are you scared?”

“No,” I told yet another lie.

“Well what’s the dilemma?”

I caressed his shaft with the familiarity of a long time lover’s hand. Some kind of way, its silkiness eased the hard questions I posed to myself. What if someone I knew saw me? What if the lights came on and everybody saw us? What if somebody snapped a photo and uploaded it to every social media outlet in existence? What if my co-workers find out? What if my family finds out? I ran through every what-if scenario I could think of, but the sum of my thoughts never trumped my horniness and the ultimate question on my mind: what if I don’t.

“Do you have a condom?” I asked just knowing that my inquiry would finally end his bizarre proposition. Now, I was lying to myself.

“I sure do.”

Damn. They always say preacher’s kids are some of the wildest folks. In that moment, I had no power to debunk the myth. I gave his shaft a gentle squeeze and whispered, “Okay.”

Nameless lowered his head to seal my confirmation with what I thought would be a kiss. But he licked the salty sweat from my cheek and neck like a thirsty kitten while pushing his fingers deep in my good good. He stirred slow circles as he drilled in and out.

My consenting ‘okay’ sent a heat through my body that caused perspiration to layer every inch of my skin like condensation on a beer mug. The moisture provided a lube in my hand as I stroked him with a gentle twist.

He released my yoni long enough to shove a condom in my hand. “Slide it on me please. I need to get inside you.”

I let go of him, ripped open the condom wrapper, placed it on his tip, and prepared to roll it down. I could’ve used a little light right there, but I proceeded blind. My thumb and index pushed the rubber until it covered his length.

Pasty air encircled our shuffle that resulted in his shaft resting at the opening of my vee. At that moment, I realized my ‘yes’ had nothing to do with his persistent pleading for consent. It had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t about an explosive ending. I was sure that it wouldn’t be about the stroking either. Really, there was no room for deep, all-the-way-out-all-the-way-in, grinding strokes like I like. But I was most anxious for his penetration: strange dick inside strange pussy... one hit on the inside.

That anxiety was different too. It wasn’t the typical tingling I experience when on my back with my legs splayed wide – sodden pussy open and begging. No. This was some next-level, addict-type thirst. No Wild Turkey required. Sober adrenaline, palsied hands, jelly legs, and temporary insanity drove my reluctance to a yes. Strange dick inside strange pussy while surrounded by strangers, that’s what it was.

“Baby, you’re so tight.”

Initial attempts at a push in failed. The girth of his head was thicker than his shaft and any of my toys. So, he really had to put his back into the press. It was a struggle, and I was glad I couldn’t see his face. Slick fingers grasping my ass and laps on my clavicle positioned me on the edge of a come. He pushed and pressed until the struggle was over. He slid himself all the way in.

My insides conformed and welcomed the strange visitor with a hug. My heartbeat was in my throat.

“Mmm, ” I vocalized not caring if the woman beside me heard it.

The dance, like my anxiety, was different. Elbows and butts of others left no room for animalistic thrusts. So, we were left with a throb and compress fuck.

“You feel that,” he asked in a raspy whisper while he sent pulsating messages that were more like Morse code.

“Yea,” I answered while giving him the full benefit of my Kegel exercise regimen.

“What the fuck,” belted a random rider from the other side of the car.

That random rant sent nameless over the edge. He grabbed my ass with both hands, nuzzled his head in my neck, and pumped my box with no mercy.

My half naked ass knocked the divider with every thrust. I wrapped my arms around him, ground my vulva into his groin, and believed he was mine.

In that moment, he was mine. Instinctively, he flicked my clit. But what I really needed was a kiss. I thought it and he obliged. He twirled circles around my tongue until I came. His hard grew harder until he spasmed and exploded.

The emergency lighting lasted about an hour, but the shadow between us didn’t permit one faded shard to pass through. It was a good thing, because he fucked me again right there in the midst of a crowded broken-down commuter train on a hot ass July afternoon.

After the power restoration, everyone exited the hot box at Farragut North. He grabbed my hand to keep from losing me in the crowd.

“Here you go.” He handed me his white pocket square. “Can I call you?”

“No, but I’ll take your number,” I responded as I reached for my phone.

He snatched the phone from my grip, entered his information in my contacts, and handed the phone back to me.

“Is that your gigolo moniker? C’mon now,” I smiled.

“Look at the hanky you’re holding, Cinnamon.”

The baby blue embroidery on the pocket square read... Train.

“My name is Tamar.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Tamar.”