Archive-name: Dreams/trainwom.txt

Archive-author: Jeff Fookson

Archive-title: Women on the Train





     J.eff Fookson, Center for Neural Science, New York University

     jeff@cns.nyu.edu





     As long as I can remember I've  been  nosy,  loving  to  evesdrop  on

conversations  I  could overhear and watch the people around me. So when I

moved to Connecticut and had to start commuting by train to my job in  New

York  City,  I  had  the perfect setting to indulge my solitary vice.  The

trains didn't run often so I was always on that same 6:29 to Grand Central

and  I  would  end  up  in the front car in pretty much the same seat each

morning.



     Well, I guess I'm not the only creature of habit, because I would see

many of the same faces and I got to know them, where they'd sit, what they

would bring to pass the time, and something of their dispositions --  some

sunnily  fresh  and  clear-eyed  despite  the  hour,  some dour or grumpy,

unhappy with the quality of sleep they had interrupted  or  perhaps  some-

thing  much deeper.  Initially, I watched the various folk with a somewhat

detached air. After a time, however,  my diffuse curiosity began to have a

focus  and I would watch for HER, actually for THEM at first,  because she

used to ride with her husband, a huge, loutish sort of man with a flaccid,

vacuous-looking  face  who  I quickly dubbed "the Neanderthal" despite his

properly neat business suit.  From his looks, I  imagined  he  was  rather

dumb.   She  was  much  smaller,  with brown shoulder-length hair and soft

features, round gold-rimmed glasses accenting doe-eyed sweetness. She  was

pretty and I was drawn to her physically but what was really compelling in

those first days was how they got along. No  matter  how  they  were  when

first  they boarded, sometimes seemingly close and affectionate, sometimes

more neutral, their mood would always turn sullen.   She  might  ask  some

simple  question, make some ordinary remark.  "Carol", he would reply with

a tone of high-arched condescension and that would  be  followed  by  some

kind  of sneering put-down or belittling remark. I could see her hurt pro-

test, expression timid and sexily pleading, and the  Neanderthal's  rejec-

tion.   She  could only pull into herself and turn away, and by the end of

every trip both their faces were hardened and they left the train in cold,

stony silence.



     I wondered at the quality of their lives, about the mix of her needi-

ness and his brutality, and I could easily imagine the scenes of humiliat-

ing sex that empowered their union. I could see her,  wet  with  yearning,

swollen  labia  puffed  with  desire  and  hope, and he with his Harlequin

Romance aloofness keeping her on the edge, on the edge,  on  the  edge...I

felt  sorry  and protective, and I knew she deserved better.  I thought of

how I could love her tenderly, but somewhere I was  also  aware  that  her

playing  victim might be hiding a passive but potent executioner.  Perhaps

in her almost coquettish petulance was the sign that she was not so  inno-

cent.  But, God, how I wanted her!



     And then, suddenly one day, she  was  alone!  "He  must  be  ill",  I

thought.  "Tomorrow he'll be back." But the day became a week, became two,

became a month until finally I could only assume that they were no  longer

together.   (That  he perhaps had only changed jobs or was out of work did

not occur to my fevered imagination.) I eagerly watched for her each  day,

looking  for  some sign of joy or remorse or anger or despair as a hint of

what might have happened, but she gave no clue.



     About this time, my obsession was diverted a bit by the appearance of

another  woman who boarded the station before Carol's. Unlike Carol's wan,

neurotic style, this new woman strode through the car to her seat  radiat-

ing  fresh,  healthy  energy. From the first time I noticed her, I thought

she had the ruddy color and open (but a little spacey) look of someone who

has  recently been partner to glorious lovemaking. With more than a little

jealousy, I watched as Carol often chose to sit with her,  and  that  they

seemed to be hitting it off.



     In any event, most of my attention still was directed towards  Carol.

I  tried  to  chose  a seat so that she would sit directly in front of me,

hoping my fervent wishes would guide her to it. I watched her  remove  her

coat, waiting to see what silk blouse or tight sweater she had chosen that

morning, trembled as her wonderful breasts strained against the fabric  as

she  reached  up  to  place  her coat on the overhead rack. "Oh, Carol," I

breathed silently. My heart ached to kiss her tenderly on the back of  her

bare  neck. I could feel myself doing it, saying "I couldn't stand the way

he treated you! I'm so happy for you he's gone!" I could feel her  melting

against  me  in gratitude and instant love, turning to kiss me full on the

lips as we embraced, soft-breathed honey-sweetness quickly  becoming  pas-

sionate  need,  our  hands  kneading each others' bodies, oblivious to the

other riders. "Let's get off the  train  at  the  next  stop  --  no  work

today!", I could hear myself saying.



     I see us getting off, sunlight filtering through greygreen, midsummer

leaves, feel the fecund earth as we run silently like shy children through

woods  into the fields of rural Connecticut, our  attache  cases  flopping

against  our  sides.   It  is  my  favorite  kind of summer's day -- gusty

southwest winds, hazy sky filled  even at this early  hour  with  towering

cumulus  before  an approaching squall line, oven heat awaiting the splash

of raindrops.  Finally alone together, we lie down in the  meadow-flowered

grass,  a  faint blush of tears showing the emotions not yet out.  It is a

moment of such heart-stopping tenderness that it catches in my throat  and

seems to last forever, but little-by-little the look in our eyes, the ache

in our groins, reminds us why we are here, and we slowly, slowly begin  to

kiss  --  deep  bottomless kisses that leave us stunned. Carol's lips work

against mine, her tongue prodding my teeth to part.  Our tongues touch and

slide inside each other's open mouths, languid but intense as they explore

moist, warm hollows, searching, finding, slowly building with ever-so-slow

motion.



     I cannot tell where I end and the world begins. My penis is rock-hard

inside  my underpants and it draws my concentration urgently downward; but

time is also strangely stayed. I become aware of the throb of life  around

me  --  the drone of insects, the swish of wind through the drying meadow,

the songs of birds.  Gently touching Carol's face, I show her  what  I  am

watching  -- two speckled ladybugs mating on a blade of grass. We watch in

idle, contented fascination feeling  our  essential  sameness  with  those

lowly beings.



     Carol's touch brings me back to us as she takes my hand and  smiling,

guides  it  under  her skirt to wet it with the fluid already covering her

inner thighs, brushes me across the swollen nub  of  her  clit,  and  then

brings  it  to  my  nose and lips so that her musky scent invades my soul.

Pulling us together with her other hand on the back of my neck, she  moves

her  own  lips  to  catch my hand between our mouths and begins to suck my

thumb, pulling it against her inner cheeks, stroking it  with  her  tongue

which darts out to caress my palm. She pushes my other fingers into my own

mouth and says "Suck me like I'm sucking you! Suck yourself and me"!   Her

tongue  probes the web of skin between my thumb and fingers, and she pulls

me deeper into her mouth, rubbing me between her cheeks and teeth, against

her  gums.  I taste my sweat mingled with her juices and feel the pleasure

of my fingers stimulating my own mouth.



     By now our clothing is soaked. Although all of it is still on, I have

never felt more naked. We are both so aware of our rhythm, building like a

breaking wave rushing up the sand only to retreat, easing  back  again  so

that moment can go on forever. I move behind Carol, my arms encircling her

waist and slipping upwards to her breasts. In my mind's heart I have  felt

them  many  times, watching on the train, but the first sensations through

her thin silk blouse floods me with a memory of schoolboy adolescent  fan-

tasy,  gained from furtive reading of many dirty books in those days, that

a woman's whole breast and not merely the nipple stiffened under passion's

fingers  --  for  she is so unbelievably hard and hot!  I ease the garment

over her head and almost swoon as  my  hands  find  the  raised,  puckered

border  of  her  areolas,  and  then,  nipples  achingly long and stiff as

fingertips. Wetting my fingers in the rivulet of sweat  trickling  between

her breasts, I stroke her nipples, playing with them.  They have the deli-

cate, chewy, springy texture of just-kneaded dough. Mewing  softly,  Carol

moves  her  head forwards so that I can nuzzle the back of her soft, downy

neck. I run my fingers in the creases behind her ears,  massage  her  ear-

lobes,  and  then my hands slip down over her breasts again, down further,

palms against her stomach, slipping under the waistband of her skirt, eas-

ing  it over her slim hips so that it drops to the earth. Her body shivers

despite the late July heat as I undo her underpants in  the  same  way  --

caressing  her ears, breasts, stomach, hands under the elastic, pausing to

stroke the pad of flesh just above and under her pubic hair,  brushing  my

thumbs  along  the folds between her vagina and inner thighs, and then her

underwear is off.



     The wind raises little goosebumps on her nakedness as  she  looks  at

me,  her  limpid, gentle eyes showing a mix of pride and modesty and lust.

Her breath comes in soulful gasps as she says "Now we get you naked, too!"

She  sits  down  in  the  grass,  legs spread, and pulls me to her. She is

already fully open, soft pink folds of wetness going way down deep inside,

the  head  of her clit reaching out achingly from its hood. Moaning, Carol

rubs her outer lips, pulls her foreskin even further down the shaft of her

button,  and  pushes  forward as her inner lips pulse rhythmically, oozing

wave after wave of slick clearwhite liquid. She is looking up at  me  with

that expression of almost petulant need that I used to see directed at her

husband, that expression that had made me want to protect and  soothe  her

with lustful tenderness, that had generated such amazing desire to rip her

clothing off while being nice, while saving her from her husband's brutal-

ity -- and now that look is directed towards me!



     Gently I flick my tongue in the crease of skin just outside her cunt,

move  down  one  leg  in a series of soft, wet kisses -- thigh, behind her

knee, calf, ankle and then lick the bottom of her  foot,  suck  her  toes,

probing  and teasing them with my tongue. As I am making love to her foot,

my hands reach higher, sliding along her legs to slip my thumbs inside her

swollen, squishy vagina. My thumbs slide around her clit, rubbing from the

bright red tip along its shaft to nuzzle against her mons.  Gently working

the  hood  back  and  forth  over her stiffened bud, I can feel the inside

swell further and retreat into its covering, which I  know  means  she  is

close to coming. I tease her parted labia with my tongue, which easily can

reach deep inside to lick her swollen, inner lips, along the front wall of

her vagina, and then the bottom side of her clitoris. I am in that ecstasy

of sense, drenched in taste and odor, liquid coursing  over  my  face  and

chin,  finally out of my ever-so-controlling head.  Carol moans a sound so

painfully, yearningly sweet, like a cat, almost and her breathing  becomes

a  coarse  rasp  deep  from within, urgent.  By instinct, my pace shifts a

bit, slowing to hold her off a bit, then up again.  She grabs at  my  head

buried  deep  inside  her  legs,  and I feel her fingers at the back of my

neck, clenching, trying to  pull  me  deeper.   Suddenly  her  whole  body

arches,  becoming  rigid  and  the noises of her breathing change from the

mechanical sound of air going in  and  out  to  a  plaintive,  half-human,

half-animal  wail  of  concentrated,  congested pressure...ah, ah, ah, aH,

aHH,  AOHHRRRGGGGHHHHHHH,  EXPLODING,  quickly,  into  rippling  waves  of

release, a soft-breathed oasis of boundless calm...



     Then, after a long while of just being, her  hands  are  on  me.  She

kisses  my  crotch,  and  explores with her lips and tongue to outline the

shape and size of my painfully constrained cock pressed against my  pants.

Even  through  the two layers of fabric, the sensation is exquisite agony,

and for some reason I think of the  fairy-tale  princess  whose  sleep  is

drastically  disturbed by a pea under many, many mattresses.  She rubs me,

playing her hands over the spot of wetness spreading on my pants, and mas-

sages the head of my penis, squeezing it between her fingers.  She presses

and cups my testicles, pressing a little more lightly, and the stain on my

clothing  grows  larger.  Undoing  my belt, Carol slips her hand under the

waistband, one in front rubbing the sides of my cock and the other down my

ass,  fingers in the crack. She rolls the elastic of my underpants, bunch-

ing the garment down as far as she can, teasingly  stroking  my  erection.

Then  she  brings  her  hands  together underneath my crotch, pressing her

fingers firmly on my perineum.  She listens to the changes in  my  breath,

following  its  cues,  pushing  harder and harder, faster and faster, then

dropping back a bit, then pressing again.  I am making noises, almost bab-

bling, almost losing it and I want to wait but she's refusing me. Oh, God,

no, NO, NO, NO...I am moaning. Not now! But I'm  suddenly  at  that  point

where  control  doesn't matter, where me watching me, holding on, is going

to give way...



     And Carol quickly makes a ring with her fingers just under  the  head

of   my  cock  and  squeezes...HARD!  Hold  it,  hold  it,  HOLD  IT,  she

says...stunning me with the sharpness and  hair-trigger  effect  of  being

caught  at  the brink, feeling the first jets of cum blocked from release,

suspended for a moment, and the slowly ebbing back, breathing slowly slow-

ing.   She  loosens  her  grip  and slides the ring of her fingers down my

penis to caress my balls, then slides back up to milk a large drop of  cum

from the head.  I can only gaze in wonder at her smiling, contented face.



     After a while, we hug, she finishes undressing me, and we hug  again,

finally  skin  to skin.  We pull each other to lie in the tall meadow, and

listening to the sounds, breathing in the scent of dusty summer. The  wind

has  picked up sharply and a high veil of white has moved in from the west

to cover half the sky. Low on the horizon, an unmistakable  dark  line  of

thunderhead  is  edging  up.  A distant rumble echoes off the far hills to

Carol's announcement "Wow -- it's going to storm! Don't you just love it?"



     I nod, noting that we're fairly safe, low in  the  fields  with  high

trees  nearby.   It  is too dramatic, too fitting to our resonant, intense

states of mind, to leave now.  We lie on our backs,  legs  entangled,  and

watch  the purplish light invade the landscape.  Somehow we both feel what

edge to keep on each other's arousal, teasing just enough, fingering  just

enough, smearing each other's juices playfully, saving the rest for later.

Quickly the world turns ever darker, the wind whips the trees,  the  birds

and  bugs fly low. A gust, much cooler, suddenly from the west, brings the

low scudding line of cloud overhead as flashes  of  yellowwhite  lightning

outline  the  boiling  tops  of  the  squall.  It rains, a few large drops

splatter on the dry dirt, then quickly turn torrential. We can hardly  see

the  windwhipped  woods, save for the almost eerie, stroboscopic effect of

the lightning.  The heavy raindrops sting as they pelt our  naked  bodies,

bringing  a blush of rosy, pink color to our skin. Above us, water catches

in the seeded sheathes of the late summer meadowgrass,  bending  them  low

with the added weight, and the rain pours from their tips onto us. It runs

down and between our legs, teasing  our  still-aroused  genitals,  and  it

streams over our faces like tears of joy.



     The sky to the west brightens suddenly and the  rain  subsides  to  a

steady,  calmer  patter,  and  the noise and fury depart eastward. We cau-

tiously stand up, hand in hand, and begin to dance in the wet field, feel-

ing  the sensuous tickle of the tall, wet grass on our bare legs and feet.

Music is in my head and I begin to sing -- it is the sublimely humble  and

transcendent song that ends the Beethoven 6th. I hear the theme, played by

the horns, simple and resonant, and then the strings, weaving in and about

the  melody  in  garland  of  radiant  thankfulness after the storm. Carol

smiles at me tenderly and in simple recognitions says "ah, yes -- the Pas-

torale."  And she starts a kiss as deeply felt as the music, pressing her-

self into me, hands on my neck and back, warm tongue in  my  mouth  moving

slowly, awakening the physical need again...



     "Last stop -- Grand Central Terminal" the conductor calls out! Carol,

still  unaware,  still  unspoken-to,  stands, adjusts her thin blouse, and

gets off the train to head for work. "I could follow her to her office," I

think.  "I could... I could..." But of course none of this would ever hap-

pen, and that would be the end  of  that...   But  that  a  copy  of  this

manuscript  slipped from my pocket as I ran to get the subway.  A few days

later, I'm stunned when Carol takes the seat next to me on the  train  and

hands a bunch of papers to me saying "I think you dropped these."



          -----------------to be continued----------------------

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