Pardon My Frottage

Julia grabbed the overhead bar as the subway lurched. Pat nearly cried out from pleasure as she stretched. His crotch and her ass connected in fourteen different spots, each convincing Pat that this was right after all. Slowly he moved up, flexing his toes to elevate his body an inch, rubbing against her perfect fit.

He imagined Julia lived in Acton, and that they owned a restored colonial with a center chimney, and while their kids slept she lay on her belly on the sheepskin rug before the fireplace, Pat riding bareback. So beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful.…

He lost the momentum when the car stopped at Davis Square, but more people climbed on and Julia couldn't move.

Slowly he arched his feet again. If he finished before Alewife Station, she might catch on, but if he ejaculated just as the train pulled in, he could see her face and stare back with an implacable look. She would think she imagined the depravity, the titillation.

Pat wanted to give her that little piece of arousal only he could bring.

* * *

Was she imagining it? Kate wondered if this guy behind her was rubbing up against her. The crowded commuter train made it hard to determine. She looked in the window and studied his reflection. Close cropped hair. Dockers and a business shirt and coat. He looked like any other State Street banker type headed home to his perfect wife and perfect kids in the suburbs.

Her nipples tightened and she nearly gasped aloud from arousal as his bulging cock rubbed against the cleft of her ass.

No. She wasn't imagining it. And now wetness pooled between her legs, the moisture welcoming and frustrating all at once. His reflection showed an impassive face, and she noticed her own frenzy in the image, cheeks flushed as a light sweat making her curls flatten against the edges of her face, her forehead beading with moisture that mirrored her throbbing womanhood, clitoris on fire against her men's Levi's, the relaxed fit no match for her engorging vulva and red nub.

Craving more, she shifted her angle and felt him stand taller, the two movements perfecting a balance of desire and want.

Two or three more bumpy spots and she would climax right there, this man pressed against her, his fullness stroking a need she didn't want to acknowledge. What was wrong with her? He was just some stranger on a train. Of course none of this was real. Clearly, he wasn't some pervert rubbing against her to get off. And yet even if he were, she was turned on, all senses fired up, ready to take his hand and fuck him in a bathroom or under a tree outside the next station, so lustful and eager that she –

A shudder took her over the edge, breath hitching as she suppressed the orgasm. She moved away from him, her hands touching her face in an effort to bring herself back down from the teeming unreality, panic filling her. How close her climax rested inside her, needing to be unleashed, tapped into by this man behind her. Orgasming in public was the last thing she wanted – ever – in her life.

And yet here she was.