On the platform, I waited for the train. Early on, friends told me never to make eye contact with anyone. If I had a cell phone I could pretend to talk to someone. The platform was much more crowded than last Monday, with the "usual" bumps and semi-collisions in the rush. It is a wonder that sensitive people aren't entirely black and blue by the end of the workweek. The train came in; it was already crowded, but I was used to this, and got on. Somebody once told me that in Japan they have railroad employees in white gloves to stuff the passengers into the trains; I wonder how much groping and feeling goes on there? My ride is fifteen stops, and the run takes me about 45 minutes. The doors closed and I got myself into my "commuter mode", hooked my arm around a pole, took out my book and began to read. For the first three or four stops things moved routinely. The train was jam-packed; people around me had their backs to me, all absorbed in their own little commuter worlds. The train chugged along with the normal screeches, rumbles, and intermittent lighting. It was during one of the station stops that I noticed something resting lightly on my butt. Somebody's hand was gently pressing against my skirt at the indent of my cheeks! I knew I should protest and make a scene, but I figured it was harmless, and after two weeks of celibacy, I was a little horny myself, so I welcomed some "sport" and smiled inwardly. Looking for something a little bit clandestine and exciting, I arched my back slightly and pushed my ass back into the hand, wiggling my butt, meanwhile keeping my nose in my book, signaling my awareness of - and consent to - these touches. It was all a game on the ride to work today. The train began to move out with a rhythmic pump and sway, and the unknown hand moved over my skirted fanny as if familiar with me already. Time passed with a clickety-clack. Was the car warmer because of the crowding? It was soon very difficult to keep reading with this anonymous attention, and my knees were wavering. I had to struggle to raise my hand to brush a lock of errant hair from my eyes, meanwhile keeping hold of my pole, my shouldered purse, and paperback book. With a deep breath, I wiggled my ass again and took a half-step, bracing my legs a bit wider. The train was so packed that nobody could board -or even move much. There was some cursing about rush hour crowds and courtesy, but I didn't care. The hand roamed lower as the train pulled into the next station, down to the hem of my gauzy skirt, squeezing my under curves, testing the territory. I didn't say a word. As the train pulled out, I felt the back of my skirt slithering ghostily upward against my satin panties, and wondered how far my phantom was going to go. I tried to twist, to move, to look over my shoulder, to no avail. I felt my moistening begin between my wide-braced legs as the hand slipped under my flyaway skirt and held my stockinged leg, shifting my stance further outward. I closed my book and was seeing nothing, unfocused, like a doomed mouse hypnotized by a cobra, self-consciously and nervously smoothing the sides of my skirt with a shaking right hand. I put my glasses in my purse, closing them carefully with my lips. The questing hand rose to the lace-embroidered top of my stocking, the fingers tracing circles in my bare thigh, just below the curve of my behind, massaging the muscle. Oh, God it felt dreamy. The train came to a lurching stop again as somebody bumped my shoulders. The hand was back on my left cheek, this time under my skirt, fingers tracing the frilly band of my pantytops. I had to step to avoid falling, wondering if the fingers would creep further, gnawing my lip as my pulse raced and my vision blurred. A soft puff of cool air brushed my inner thighs. I felt like Marilyn Monroe in that movie, but there was somebody else in this picture. While one hand roamed freely over my taut, round cheeks, another (his other? Who could tell?) reached for my free hand and took it behind my back. The grip pressed my hand over a muscled belly and down over a wide leather belt and some corduroys. The male organ was hardening like my bullet-tipped nipples. My unknown groper moved my captive hand up and down his prick, and then let go. I kept my hand on his organ, without conscious decision, blindly rubbing him. His other hand inched my panties down astride my hips, and I felt his fingers inside them. I muffled a yelp with my book, but jumped. On a crowded subway train, somebody I could not see and did not know was inside my panties with his hands wandering toward my sex, while I gave him the dance hall two-step! I was in a cloud of my perfume suddenly, and shuddered, staring dumbly at the backs of my fellow riders, dropping my book. As he squeezed my quaking moons, and tickled between them, his other hand snaked up under my sweater and around my torso. I wiggled my butt to move his warm palm back to my cheek, seeking the pleasure of that warm caress now wandering elsewhere. My "Nile explorer" massaged my abdomen and navel with the most wonderful caresses and tickles, then crept lightly, teasingly upward towards my chest. The train began to chuff forward again -and everyone staggered- as one hand yanked the back of my panties further down and pushed two fingers firmly in between my cheeks while the other hand cupped my right lace-covered boob. With my left hand around the car rail, I was still able to press his wonderful hand to my chest; I am very proud of the firmness and shape of my breasts, and they require attention when I am aroused. He teased and kneaded my globes through my brassiere, causing them to become insistently, demandingly erect. My head was swimming, my pulse was pounding, and I made every effort to assist him. It felt as if I were conspiring with a robbery, I licked my lips, I was becoming aroused. As he got bolder, so did I. I moved my hand up from his bulge, all the while keeping a neutral, no-nonsense commuter face to my front, and located his fly. I ran my lacquered nails up and down his zipper and pulled it daintily down, whistling tunelessly as I put my hand inside my molester's pants. His shorts had that unfastened closure you see on cheap boxers and pyjamas, and I soon found his hot, throbbing organ, and ran my fingers and nails teasingly along his fuzzy underside and balls. It twitched to my touch, and his boa-constrictor grip on me tightened. I used my thumb to paint some of the wet from the tip, then my palm to smear it over the mushroom head and down its length. It seemed to grow and I could feel him move nearer. A hot kiss seared the back of my neck. By this time, his left hand clutched my boobs, straining against the French lace, rising and falling with my increasingly heated breaths, and was massaging me with a warm, cupped palm. His right hand was all over my half-exposed butt. My sweater was inching up my left side with his arm -and now there was a finger in my behind! I tried to turn again to see if I could see my mauler-lover, or if anybody might catch a glimpse of our intimate conspiracy. The train sped on through the tunnels, light panels flashing and motors thundering. I swallowed with a suddenly-dry mouth, and moved my right leg back against his, stretching against the waistband of my restraining panties. The hand left my upper torso and dropped to the baroque brass cincture at the waist of my skirt, and worked it free. The hand dove into the front of my skirt, now held up only by my widely-spread hips, and ran his fingers across my lower belly. I dropped my slippery grip on his cock to move my hand front and grab his wrist, holding him there. My left hand was idiotically trying to pull my sweater back down to my waist -and hold me upright. His penis was bluntly, blindly wandering the small of my back. My body poured into his grip as he rested his hand on the fleur-de-lys embroidery on the front of my panties and massaged down to my silk-covered entrance. I softly whimpered. The traveling hand curled around to the top of my half-masted panties and dipped inside. My knees sagged, spreading my legs wider. Fingers moved hypnotically through my pubic hair as they searched for my doorway, eventually entering me like a hungering snake following a gopher into its hole. A small exclamation escaped my lips, but the train noise was too loud for any to hear. I quivered, fighting to remain upright, and tried to move away from the probing hand to regain my composure, backing up against his hardness. I rubbed my ass up and down deliriously against his organ. Nobody noticed us....

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