A-Trainin'

Wall-Street gives me the once over as I crossed my legs and let the dress fall open at the thigh...I pretended not to notice as I 'read' my TIMES—folded 'New York' style....

Three or four stops down town, she got on.... Much, much prettier than her picture...dressed to the nines, but all business....about my color—chocolate with a hint of rust hiding just below the surface...dark hair in a straight, asymmetrical bob—a sort of Asian thing—dark glasses, almost as big as mine—these she lowered, ever so slightly to make eye-contact with me...to acknowledge my presence and to let me know that the performance he thought was his alone was really mine....

The suit was white...a linen-blend that defied wrinkles and held its shape—her shape—magnificently....she was, as one of our dear, departed uncles would have noted, 'built like a brick shit-house'....if the jacket of the suit had not been tailored just so, its seams would have been rupturing...she had had the audacity somewhere before entering the train to unbutton its top button...the pale bluish lace of a shelf-bra that dipped into a deeper purple cup, did little to keep her nipples from playing hide-n-seek with the most discerning as the train rocked from stop to stop....

I've often wondered how she got into that skirt.... I mean it was a simple enough proposition....it was calf-length, buttoned up the front, with a nice split in the back for a 'strider'....but girlfriend appeared to have poured herself into it, or to have painted it on....

In any case, to the rhythm of the train wheels, oblivious to the oblivious, she had undone all of the skirt buttons up to the hem of her suit jacket....then with a slight shift as she braced against the pole, the front of the skirt swung open ever so much—but certainly enough—to reveal a shaved—and what appeared to be—quite slick pussy...with a very large, pink, throbbing clit—or was that my imagination—the 'throbbing,' that is....