Riding Coach

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Paul was ecstatic. He was now a full convert to the game, a committed member of the club. He could not wait for the next meeting, and he repeatedly checked the billboard for the sign, the ticket, for the next gathering of the clan

Time though passed and there was none to be found. He knew that the schedule was erratic and inconsistent to decrease the likelihood of any innocent passenger, any inadvertent observer, ever noticing a pattern to the odd goings on. But, the repeated absence of a ticket announcing another meeting was frustrating. It was also a tremendous inconvenience to ride into Metro Center just to check the billboard, just to discover that there was nothing there. He wondered if perhaps the ticket had been removed or lost (the conductor, however, did repeatedly check for that problem).

Paul had so much enjoyed the last meeting, although he was disappointed that the woman had not brought him to orgasm. Nevertheless, it had still been considerably invigorating, and exciting. His dick swelled and twitched anytime he even just thought about it, like a dog perking up its ears at the possible sound of his leash being taken off the peg, announcing that it was time for another ride on the train.

Eventually, Paul's wishes, his desires, were fulfilled. There was the ticket again, tucked into a corner of the billboard! He looked around to be sure that there was no security watching him. He then strolled up to the billboard, snatched the ticket off the sign and looked at it as he was pretending to tie a shoe. His heart raced with excitement as he read the schedule. It was for a commute that was virtually opposite to his normal route. He would be quite late for work that day, and he was generally very prompt. He could be excused though for being late once in awhile. He double checked the schedule and route, committed it to memory, stood back up and tucked the ticket back into the frame of the billboard.

When the morning arrived he waited anxiously on the platform for the ride along the Red Line, toward North Hollywood, glancing left and right, wondering which of these persons were members of the club, which were not. He didn't see the woman from last time, nor did he see the distinguished gentleman. Nobody in fact seemed to be giving anything away. He was probably himself the most suggestive, suspicious looking person, the way he kept scanning the crowd, as if he was nervous about something. He then realized that he was indeed acting like a novice member. All of the true, experienced, members were probably annoyed at his conspicuous suspiciousness. He turned back to just face the tracks, consciously altering his expression from excited anticipation to bland, bored, commuter indifference.

When the train arrived he clamored aboard, squeezing again into a place by the side of the train, pretty much the same spot as before (fisherman generally return to where they had previously been successful), hoping so much that he would be lucky enough to have a female member of the club position herself by him, in front of him, as before. As additional persons climbed, pushed, and squeezed on board, he felt like a boy at a Sadie Hawkins' dance, hoping so much that a pretty girl would pick him. He had hated his school's Sadie Hawkins' dances. Imagine the embarrassment, the shame, of never even being picked. At least when it was boy's choice, the right and normal way to do it, you could always claim that you weren't interested, that it was your choice to go without a date. But, showing up to a Sade Hawkins' dance dateless was totally humiliating, as you were clearly someone that none of the girls wanted. This had not bothered him the previous ride, largely because he wasn't really expecting anything. He would have been happy just to have been another observer, helping with the provision of cover.

And, there she was, his dance partner. She was really quite attractive. Not only would he not go dateless at the Sadie Hawkins' train dance, he was apparently being selected by one of the prettiest girls in the class. She had long straight blonde hair that was split down the middle, a very engaging and sweet smile, hazel eyes behind large, round spectacles, a perky nose and red cheeks, both sprinkled with freckles, and accentuated with very cute little dimples. Plus, she clearly had quite disproportionately large breasts. They weren't humongous breasts, but on her rather petite frame they did really stand out, which she didn't appear to mind as she was wearing a rather tight, form fitting pink sweater, couple with a plaid, school girl like skirt that didn't even reach her knees. He could tell that she was not in fact a high school girl, let alone a school girl, or even a college girl, as she was carrying a briefcase and was speaking on her cell phone, negotiating some sort of business deal involving corporate funding that was apparently beyond their means at this stage in the economy. She squeezed into the small space in front of Paul, deep in her negotiations.

Paul was ecstatic. His dick swelled in his slacks as he contemplated the pleasure of this ride. He couldn't believe that the women who are involved in this game are apparently so darned attractive. He was not himself unattractive, but he certainly was not strikingly handsome like the elder gentleman, the conductor. The woman who was now squeezed in front of him probably would not give him the time of day if he asked her out, yet here she was now, presenting herself to him, to fondle, to caress, to even molest on the train ride to work. It was a strange world indeed.

With a big grin on his face and a growing erection in his slacks he reached over to grasp hold of that sweet, soft, round tush.

And, as soon as he made contact he realized that her bottom felt better than it even looked, if that was possible.

"What the hell are you doing?!" the woman exclaimed, turning to provide him the most angry, threatening glare he had ever seen in a woman.

"Oh! Yes! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I um, I thought you were someone else! Please."

"Yea, right," she retorted sarcastically, not believing a word of what he said, but not particularly interested in pursuing this further. All she wanted was to end this nuisance and have this jerk get the hell away from her. "I can't believe this fucking city," she said to the person with whom she was speaking.

"Really, I'm sorry," Paul said more softly and pushed and squeezed himself away from her, forcing himself through, past, and around other passengers, all of whom were giving him dirty looks. Not grabbing the woman (at least few appeared to be aware of that) but for being rather obnoxious in forcing his way deeper into the train. He would not normally do such a thing, but he wanted to get out of sight of the woman.

Once he was a safe distance, he concentrated on calming down, licking his wounds, and trying to rationally assess the damage, as well as the danger. He didn't think that the woman would contact security, or the police. She had made no such threat, and he did possibly have a valid excuse. Didn't he? However, it was conceivable that the person on the other end of the phone might have talked her into calling the police.

He ensconced himself into a far corner of the train, hopefully safely so.

Had he read the ticket wrong? Had he gotten on the wrong train? He couldn't possibly have read the ticket wrong. He had studied it very, very carefully. Plus, he was certainly on the correct car, and he had been equally careful to count the number of cars so as to get on the right one. What had probably happened was that he had approached a woman who was not in fact a member of the club, just a woman inadvertently riding on the car in which the next meeting was taking place. The distinguished gentleman had told him that a key aspect of the selection of male participants was care and discretion and, in his excited anticipation of his encounter, he had acted quite impulsively and recklessly. He sure hoped that the gentleman had not seen him, or that it would not get reported back to him. Of course, that was only a tenth of his true worries; getting turned into security or the police was substantially more troubling.

He did though scope his surroundings. If he could not participate himself this time, he might at least be able to observe and help hide other participants in their more successful encounter. And, there was indeed a rather appealing woman behind whom he was now positioned.

However, she was not at all what he would expect of a participant in this club. All of the previous girls had appeared relatively young. They were certainly above the age of eighteen (the conductor did check ID in ambiguous cases), but they were generally in their twenties. The woman in front of him, her sweet bottom facing him, was an older woman dressed in a tight, conservative business suit. She wasn't like really old. She may in fact be his same age, but she was quite distinguished looking, with black framed glasses, hair pulled back, well manicured nails, attractive but not heavily made-up and subtle perfume. She was also carrying a briefcase, which she placed in between her shapely calves, clutching it with her ankles, which rose nicely out of her heels. She had the appearance of a business woman, not a secretary. She was a woman of power, of authority; a woman to be respected.

Nevertheless, Paul had to admit that she did have a very nicely rounded rump that was quite well framed and molded by her tight skirt. It was like it was poking out of her skirt because it wanted to be touched, to be squeezed, to be fondled.

But, he had been way too impulsive the first time. This time he waited for a sign, for a signal, waiting for her to accidentally bump her butt back into him, into his pelvis, into his crotch, and then subtly but lasciviously, circle that soft round rump around and around his stiffening dick.

But, nothing happened. In fact, he fell a bit into her, not with his crotch but with an elbow. "Sorry," he apologized, grabbing hold of a steel rod with his right hand, his left now holding onto his briefcase. He would like to place it between his own feet, but he was too close to her to do that. Her briefcase was taking up that space.

She didn't even respond to his apology. If she was a member, she was certainly playing it rather aloof. Of course, it was most likely that she was not in fact a member at all. He decided to try to find out. It was perhaps a foolhardy decision, a lack of willingness to accept defeat, driven by days of excited anticipation and balls that were well stirred with a deep urge.

He would though need to move more slowly, carefully, cautiously. He was reminded of his days in high school, when he was on a date, particularly that third date with Stacy Ann, in the dark theater. He knew that it was time to make the first move. After all, it was their third date. She's got to be expecting something by now, and she's got to be interested, doesn't she? All he had to do was to wrap his arm around her shoulder, but what if she pulled away? Then what? How awkward would that be for the rest of the movie, and the ride home. He could try the move where you pretend you're just stretching your arm, but that's so corny and obvious. What he did was to slowly inch his left hand over to her, at first on his own leg next to her, then down to the side of his leg, slowly but surely getting closer, inching over, like he was slowly inching his way into a pool of cold water, pausing after each step to detect a sign that it was fine, that it was acceptable, that she wouldn't pull away, and even if she did, he could still claim that it wasn't intentional.

His heart pounded as hard as it did in that movie theater with Stacy Ann. He set his briefcase to his left, against the side of the train, and inched his hand closer, and closer, and closer, to the woman's soft, round bottom. He hesitated when it was less than an inch away.

This was much more difficult than Stacy Ann. After all, this wasn't their third date. This wasn't even their first date, as they were not on a date. They didn't even know each other. They were just, fortuitously, riding a crowded subway train together, and he was about to initiate sexual contact. Yea, this was a lot more difficult than Stacy Ann. He was now going in cold, with no signs of willingness, interest, or receptivity, and it was right after he essentially had his face slapped by his previous date, in the same theater just moments ago.

This authoritative, strong looking woman was not really an obvious choice for membership in the club. Professional women, women of power, would not want to be fondled and molested on a train, would they? But, then, why was she wearing such a tight skirt? Actually, wearing a tight skirt isn't really a signal to guys that it would be acceptable to touch her butt. It was a signal that you do have a very lovely butt to fondle, but that didn't really mean she wanted you to do it, right then, on a public train.

He took a deep breath. He would have to move soon and quickly if he was going to get this done. These train rides do not last forever.

With considerable trepidation he turned his hand and rested the back against her bottom, very briefly. The touch was electrifying, at least to him, and he touched her again, and again. It was like he was lightly tapping her bottom with the back of his fingers due to the natural jostling and bumps of the train.

She didn't pull away. Perhaps a woman would normally move her bottom aside at the feel of a guy's hand inadvertently patting her bottom. Or, perhaps she would give him a confused, annoyed glance, letting him know that he should pay more attention to where his hands are bumping. But, perhaps she would also just take a deep sigh and accept it as yet another annoyance of riding coach. It was really impossible to avoid at least some discommodious contact. At least it wasn't intentional. It wasn't like the guy was actually sneaking a feel, was he?

He pressed his hand against her bottom more firmly, resisting the jostling of the train to maintain a steady contact with her round rump. This was now in a grey area of being incidental versus explicitly intentional. In order to maintain steady contact, he had to be consciously, willfully, controlling his hand. This could not be mistaken as an accidental contact. Still, it was just the back of his hand. Nobody feels or fondles someone with the back of his hand. It wasn't like he was grabbing hold of her butt. This time he could claim innocence if she got upset, although the accusation and confrontation would still be rather embarrassing, if not frankly troublesome, particularly by a second woman on the same train. Yea, that wouldn't go over too well with security.

The businesswoman turned her face to look back to him. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I crowding you? Do you need more room?"

Paul became a bit flustered and quickly removed his hand. "No, no, I'm fine. It's fine."

She stepped back, pressing her bottom against his hardness.

"Yes, I see the problem," she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she felt his lengthening cock through his boxers and slacks, "or, should I say, feel the problem."

He was speechless. The ball, or more accurately the cock, was clearly in her hand, or at least against her butt. It was up to her how this would be handled, and it appeared that she did indeed want to handle it.

"I just can't have him sticking me in my behind all the way to work, can I?"

"Uh, no," he replied, his dick becoming even stiffer with the touch of her sweet soft bottom, bumping against his stiff dick with the bumps and jerks of the train.

She reached back with her left hand and firmly rested it against, or more accurately firmly grasped, his stiff cock in her hand.

He quickly glanced to the right of him, to see if someone was seeing what she was doing, or hearing what she was saying. The man to their right was standing somewhat askew to them, facing toward the back of the train, looking largely over Paul's shoulder, listening to an Ipod, lost in a book, music, and/or his thoughts, seemingly oblivious to the world around him, which wasn't a bad way to travel on a commuter train. There was though another woman to their right, fortunately facing away from them. In addition, she was again largely ignorant to the world around her, as she was absorbed in a conversation on her cell phone.

Paul really hated cell phones, particularly on the train. It seemed like people talked louder on a cell phone than they would if the other person was standing right next to them, plus the conversations often seemed to be so inane and, even if they weren't, they would speak so loudly, so openly, that it seemed like they were speaking to him, and he had no interest in being forced to hear the conversation. It was bad enough to have your physical space so violated on a train, must he also be subject to multiple violations of auditory space, as he usually could overhear three to four conversations as he rode to work, unable to tune them out. The woman to his right was telling her friend that she was on the train, and that it was crowded, and that it was noisy so it was hard to hear. What was the point of that conversation?

Well, one advantage was that the woman's loud conversation pretty much trumped his conservation with the lady in front of him.

"Here," she said, "let me see if I can give him more room."

She suddenly slid down the zipper to his slacks and plunged her hand inside.

Paul was shocked. His natural instinct was to lurch away, but there was simply no room to do so. He did flinch, but he quickly regained his composure, not wanting to draw any undue attention. His eyes though were wide in shock as he felt her hand feeling around for him inside his slacks.

There is something odd, quite unnatural, about feeling someone else's fingers inside your slacks. Part of it was simply that it was not a particularly common experience, to say the least. Part of it was also how oddly personally intrusive it felt, like there were snakes fumbling and wiggling around in there.

She wasn't really doing much fumbling though, as she seemed to be quite skilled at this. She quickly found the large vertical flap in his boxers.

And her hand felt so nice on his stiff hard erection. She could not provide much movement to her hand, buried and confined in his slacks and boxers, but the exploration, caressing, and fondling of her fingers were nevertheless a tremendously delightful pleasure. She appeared to be exploring every inch of his hardness, providing special consideration and particular attention to the swollen bulb of his cock, tenderly caressing the smooth, slick crown with the tips of her fingers.

Paul returned the favor and reached out with his left hand to firmly cup one of her bottom cheeks, wondering how he would, could, get his hand under that tight business skirt, but for the moment simply enjoying the moment, the feel of her soft curved rump and her skilled fingers inside his boxers. Yes, this was the way to travel!

The woman shifted her hand away from his crown back down to his shaft, got a firm hold, and wrested him from the confines of his slacks into the open air of the commuter train.

Paul quickly jammed his extracted cock into the butt of the woman, like a scared infant hiding in the soft confines of his mother's bosom. He lodged it as best he could within the cheeks of the woman's bottom, although his cock could not get in far, as her skirt was so darned tight.

This seemed more dangerous to him than the previous ride, although perhaps only because previously it was toward the end of the ride, and not preceded by an angry, scolding passenger.

The woman turned back to him, a mischievous smile on her face. "Excuse me, sir, but you seem to be poking something into my bottom. If you wouldn't mind, please," she asserted, as she pushed him back with her hand, still clasping the cock.