Rob: We see each other on the eight o’clock train from Mondays to Fridays. Rush hour means there’s no room to maneuver or breathe. I first touch her by accident, not expecting her to lean towards me. No other woman has ever driven me insane with lust. A taste isn’t enough. I want more—her name for a start and eventually her heart.
Maddie: No names. We don’t even utter a single word. All we need is the language of pants and gritted teeth. We’re two lonely souls on the daily grind, strangers who meet at the crossroads. I tell myself I’ll stop eventually, but I keep coming back. He wants more, says he’s ready to give his name. I think I know where this is heading, but I’m certain this is one train wreck waiting to happen.
Be Warned: light BDSM, spanking, public exhibition, rimming
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“Morning,” I mumble.
“How are you doing?” she whispers back.
Greetings are standard protocol. Words hold no meaning here. We make do with our bodies. The doors come to a close and the automated voice announces the next station. She presses her back right up against my chest, and pushes her heart-shaped ass, barely covered by her dress, against the ridge of my erection.
Damn it, but I like how she’s all woman. She possesses the right kind of curves, able to take in the strength of my body without effort, and it drives me insane that all I can do is hold her.
The train makes an abrupt stop, the perfect excuse for her to trip on her four-inch heels and for me to band one protective arm around her luscious breasts.
I freeze for a couple of moments, realizing she took my suggestion yesterday to heart. She wears no bra today, and I can feel her tits hardening through the silk fabric. It’s not hard to imagine me grasping those perfect breasts, squeezing them, and watching them bounce while I sink my dick into her slick pussy.
All fantasy of course, because this is all we do. We grind against each other, strangers on the train who need a pick-me-up. She touched me first by accident. The second time was intentional. The third, we struck a mutual agreement. It’s not exactly a romantic arrangement, but we make do.
I muffle a groan, and she hisses an unladylike word through her teeth. “Fuck.”
She rubs her body against me, challenging the limits of my control. Each time the curve of her ass rubs against my zipper, I imagine us somewhere else. Away from this eight o’clock train, and from the safety and familiarity of the crowd.
When I’m at the office all I think of is her. What’s her story, why she never misses this train—the questions are endless, but in the end, I draw one singular conclusion. She’s lonely just like me, too busy or impatient to form a connection with another human being.
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