Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
In the northwest corner of the Bronx, one of the five boroughs of New York City, a subway line begins, the
Broadway local. It goes nearly due south through eight or ten distinct and very different neighborhoods on its way to the Battery, the southern tip of Manhattan. The first stop (or last stop, as you like) is 242nd Street. It’s fairly close to the city line, so people on the train also come from Yonkers, the immediately northern suburb, after they get dropped off by a spouse or a bus driver. The riders are not exclusively New Yorkers. I’m a graduate student at the large, famous, Ivy League university on the upper west side of Manhattan. I try to follow a very regular schedule, so I arrive at the station at 8:58 or 8:59 each morning, trying for the
train that leaves 242 at 9:04 AM. If nothing goes wrong, this puts me at 116th Street at about 9:38 and I can easily get to work by 10:00. This is very predictable; I have a considerable streak of OCD in me. I always sit in the fourth car of the ten-car train. Getting on an empty train at the end of the line, I can usually sit in “my” seat, which is one of two seats at the very end of the car beyond the last door, facing two others across the aisle. I am comfortable in this routine. Almost immediately after I established this routine, I noticed that another rider shared it. An attractive woman, perhaps a few years older than I, sat down directly across from me for four days in a row, at 9:01 or 9:02 each day. On the third day I noticed her, and on the fourth day I decided that she was acting intentionally, not accidentally. I don’t believe she ever noticed that I was sitting across from her. She was (and remains) a woman of subtle beauty. Her white skin was rather pale, and she wore very little makeup that I could discern, though her complexion was utterly flawless. Her hair was blonde, straight, and cut rather short, though this did not make her look boyish. Her lipstick was a bright exception to the general lack of drama to her face – a red just leaning toward a plum shade that complemented the clear, intense blue of her eyes. She wore almost no eye makeup that would distract from their color. On the Wednesday that I became aware of her, she was wearing a medium gray wool suit consisting of a closely fitted skirt that fell just below her knees, and an equally closely fitted jacket that she wore unbuttoned. She had on a modest, but elegant, paper white blouse with a loose bow at the neck, with a single strand of pearls that were partly covered by the bow. She wore pearl studs in her pierced ears that matched the strand. They caught my eye because they were considerably larger than any I had seen before, easily 9 mm in diameter. I made a mental note to check on typical pearl sizes. She wore stockings that were certainly not pantyhose, as I could tell when she sat down and momentarily let her knees separate by a few inches. Nearly black stockings extended up her thighs, but there was a white flash of naked flesh as she settled almanbahis down. I’m afraid I stared a little bit. My penis let me know that it was aware of her thighs by stirring slightly. She opened her New York Times and began to read it. I opened a book to review celestial mechanics – how to navigate in low earth orbit. The train filled up, of course, and the sight line between us was instantly filled by standing riders (“standees”, in local parlance). I looked up and saw one of her knees from time to time, and that day I could just see the edge and corner of the very thin black leather folder that she carried as an elegant substitute for an attache case. I reached my stop and got off. I didn’t think of her again. The next morning I was in my seat early, at 8:57, waiting for the 9:04 departure time, when the same woman got on and sat in the same seat as the day before, just opposite me. It was a considerably warmer morning, so she wore an off-white skirt just above her knees, with a peach silk collarless blouse and a quirky gold necklace with small, mismatched charms or knots every inch or so. She carried a tan cardigan, as I now recall, in the same hand that held her leather folder and her newspaper. Where the day before she had exuded professionalism and seriousness, today she seemed to be much younger and girlish. Her lipstick was a very pale coral that didn’t match the blouse, which I found endearing. I noticed that she was wearing two different gold earrings, one a small cluster of tiny cubes, and the other a tiny woven bird’s nest, as best I could tell. Her stockings were nude, and her shoes were light brown lace-up booties with a two-inch heel. For the first time, I noticed that she was taller than average, perhaps 5’8” or 5’9” in her heels. In comparison to the day before, she looked rather like her own daughter! And again, as she sat down, her knees parted company for just a second and I could see the welts of her stockings. There was just a tiny glint of a metal garter grip, and I realized she was wearing a garter belt. “Lovely,” I thought to myself, “just lovely!” I had the beginning of an erection, but it subsided quickly as the car filled up and she crossed her ankles to move her feet out of the standees’ way. She disappeared from view for a few stops, but then a little opening appeared in the crowd between us. I looked up from my own reading just as she uncrossed and recrossed her ankles, and once again I had a brief glimpse of her inner thigh as she shifted in her seat. Once again a mini-erection came and went. On the fifth morning of this first week, the Friday, I was in my seat at 8:58, pretty much on my OCD sufferer’s schedule. Sure enough, the lovely blue-eyed blonde woman walked into the car and again sat directly across from me. She was wearing a slate blue lapel-less suit with a pale blue blouse that made the blue of her eyes dazzle any viewer. Her stockings were dark blue; her shoes were 4” high navy blue pumps with very narrow heels that were not quite stilettos, almanbahis yeni giriş which surprised me a bit. I had been developing a mental picture of her that didn’t include sexy footwear, even as it did include a fantasy of very sexy lingerie. The flash of the garter grip against her thigh had set my mind on that path, and like most men I happily trotted along it, picturing lace bras and camisoles and lacy boy shorts and thongs and so forth and so forth. Inevitably, my penis roused itself and began to stiffen with the idea. With the higher heel, her knees were also higher as she sat in her seat, of course. When she sat down, she simply put her feet and knees together as she unfolded and refolded her Times. When she began to read it, her knees drifted just the slightest bit apart and stayed there. Then, as the train bounced and jostled us in the endless parade of local stops on the way to 116th Street, her knees drifted apart a bit further and stayed there. I couldn’t quite see up her skirt, as the man standing in the aisle between us blocked my view, but I knew for certain that I was seeing her right knee and her inner right thigh. The train slowed suddenly and the man shifted his feet to keep his balance, which put her upper thighs completely in my sight. Her face was behind the Times, naturally, but I could see her thighs up to where the stockings ended. In fact, I could see a small patch of bright red! Aha! She was wearing panties – or a thong, or boy shorts, or something – that were deliberately clashing with her outfit! As I watched her, she moved her left foot a half-inch to her left and the small patch got a bit bigger, as did my erection. I continued to pretend to read, but I was fixated on her lovely white thighs and the tantalizing red beacon that identified where her pussy was being sheltered. The standing man was pushed a bit to his left by a boarding passenger, which caused my view to disappear. With the red flash out of sight, my erection subsided to a mere thickening of the flesh, which was fortunate because I could then stand up without having to adjust myself. For some reason the crowd was thicker this morning, and when I got off at 116 I had to push through to reach the door, so I caught only a glimpse of the top of my new friend’s head. That’s what I thought to myself at the time: “my new friend.” As I started walking up the stairway to Broadway, I asked myself the startled question: “ ‘New friend?’ When did that happen?” By 9:47 I had purchased a cup of coffee and by 10:00 I was writing a problem set for my seniors, and she was gone from my mind. Her routine seemed to be exactly as rigid as mine. I grew accustomed to seeing her opposite me on the subway every morning, each of us in “our” seat. She was a very sophisticated dresser, as I learned over the next few weeks. She wore the occasional dress, but that choice didn’t seem to be related to any possible after-work activity; one would be essentially a Little Black Dress that she obviously almanbahis giriş planned to wear to an event, and another would be a belted brightly-colored variation on a shirtwaist. However, her allegiance to nylons never, ever wavered. Each day she wore stockings with a garter belt or thigh-highs. Usually I would spot white or black underwear, or red, but occasionally she wore ridiculously bright panties in magenta, fuchsia, and acid yellow. I know all this about her undergarments because she invariably sat with her legs and knees just slightly apart. She never actually flashed me – that is, she never parted her legs as an overt gesture – but there always seemed to be some shifting in her seat to get comfortable that would leave a two- or three-inch space between her knees. And she always seemed to direct that gap toward me, very casually and apparently by chance. The first morning I masturbated in a bathroom after seeing her on the train I surprised myself with the urgency of it. Her stockings that morning had been a light coffee color – her entire outfit had been rather monochrome in shades of brown, and she wore gold jewelry that kept it from being drab – but her panties had been nearly invisible. I think she wore a thong of a very sheer nylon in a very light shade of brown, and for the first time I thought I could make out the labia majora of her cleanly shaven pussy. My erection had been quite strong that morning, and I had had to concentrate on Margaret Thatcher to tame it before getting off the train at 116th Street. (That always does the trick for me.) The erection came back immediately after I bought my usual cup of coffee. Just the color of the coffee reminded me of how she had looked and the result was the same as it had been on the subway. I got to my office at 9:52. I realized that my routine required me to be at my desk working by 10:00, but I also knew that I would not be able to work without relieving my lust. I allowed myself to change my routine. I went into the staff bathroom, where the toilet stalls were European-style closed cabinets, and entered one and locked it. I lowered my pants and sat down on the toilet. I looked down at my 6” erection, which was as huge as it ever gets, and saw it oozing pre-cum. I touched the tip of my cock and stretched a string of pre-cum six or eight inches up into the air and that was the extent of the foreplay I allowed myself. I instantly gripped my shaft at its bottom and stroked my penis very hard, but only six or eight times before I came, throwing a spear of cum at the toilet stall door. I spurted three, four, five times that morning – quite obviously I hadn’t had an orgasm for a while and I had a lot to get rid of. I cleaned myself up, wiped off the stall door, and left the bathroom after washing my hands. When I got back to my desk it was 10:02. After a long and rather difficult conversation with myself I decided that this was an acceptable change to my routine. From that day on, my schedule included a ten-minute window each morning – from 9:52 to 10:02 – to masturbate after seeing “my new friend” on the train ride down from the Bronx. Now that I was benefiting from it, I thought I should acknowledge my friend’s behavior, assuming it was intentional.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32