 Rich Denis wasted far too long in business until, serendipitously, he saw an ad for a writing class. The learning curve is steep but addictive. For the moment he lives in Manhattan with his long suffering partner and attempts to write a book while being distracted by ideas for erotic short stories. Email Rich Denis.
The 6 Train So, I'm waiting downtown as the 6 train pulls in, and it's another rush hour, and like me all the tired, irritable, dispirited working stiffs are desperate to get home. In the crush a tourist glances at a subway map and hesitates. I dart round him and snag a seat, right on the end near the door. A seat is a miracle, but the air conditioning in the carriage not working repays me for my rudeness. And of course the train is jammed and the construction worker next to me has sucked down way too many Big Macs and beers in his life. And half my seat is already his. I wriggle to no effect, but gain an extra couple of inches by hanging my arm out over the metal stanchion. The train lurches away from the station, the sweating mass of passengers shifts and I feel a body connect with my elbow. Held tight by the crush the body stays right there. Moving my arm means leaning into my corpulent construction guy. I'm not keen. The train gains momentum and settles into its swaying rhythm. The body maintains the same pace against my elbow. My elbow usually serves little purpose in my interaction with the world, but it's sensitive enough for me to suspect the body part it's touching is a thigh. In fact two thighs and the point at which they meet. I look up. My eyes stray from the thin hand on the grab rail, past the scraped back ebony hair, down the white short sleeve blouse, across the crisp navy skirt, around the bulging leather briefcase at her side and finally to the neat, perfect crotch against my elbow. I look away. I've avoided a close inspection of her face, but registered she is whippet thin and attractive in a brisk practical way. I'd guess barely thirty and work weary. From the briefcase I assume a businesswoman. A conservative woman. So why do I imagine she is pressing harder as she rocks along with the insistent pulse of the train? Does she know I am here? We squeal to a halt at Canal Street. The sardine crush of passengers shifts back and forth. A few get off, more get on and the crush gets tighter. She has not taken the brief opportunity to move. Instead she remains tight against my elbow. As the doors slam shut I hesitate for a second then with delicate care push back. I feel her thighs part. She knows I'm here. The train jerks away from the station and regains its rhythm and all I am aware of in the world is my elbow, the hardness of her pubic bone and below it, heat. Faithfully I follow her swaying movements, but adjust my elbow a fraction and hold my breath. The pressure against me increases. I breath again, apply a little upward force and feel her thighs part a few degrees more. Is she eager, even desperate or is it my wishful thoughts? I glance up. She is staring along the carriage. Her jaw is clenched, her mouth a tight thin line, she swallows. She is using me. I love it. As the train slows and stops at Spring Street her crotch stays locked on me. By Bleeker Street I know the lips of her labia have swollen. By Astor Place they have spread and she has maneuvered her clit hard against me. I imagine my face there, my tongue working at her, pressing, teasing. I wonder when a man was last there, a cock rubbing where I am now. I am aroused more than I can ever remember. Union Square comes too quickly, but by 23rd Street I can feel she is moist and slippery. How wonderful it would be to taste this juice I have helped create. I risk another glance. She is breathing through her mouth. A slight ruby flush has crept from the pale skin of her chest to her neck? Her fist is clenched white knuckled on her briefcase. I notice the thick gold wedding band. It excites me more. As we lurch away from the station she grinds against me harder. I thrust back. I imagine her with a husband. She is under him on a narrow bed. She is staring blankly at the ceiling, her legs wide, her arms at her side, enduring him as best she can. When he's finished she sits and smokes while he grunts and mumbles in his sleep. She has been thinking of me. As we slow for 28th Street she speeds her thrusts, once, twice, then stills as her thighs cling and tremble around me. I wait before I dare look up again. Her eyes blink open. The pressure on my elbow eases. Her eyes are chestnut brown. The train comes to rest. More commuters press on. The tip of her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips. The doors of the train slide shut and we move off. She glances down at me, a tiny, nervous, questioning smile plays about her eyes. I want to tell her it was wonderful, a moment of intimacy I'll never forget, a gift. She continues to stare at me and her mouth opens as if she is about to speak, but we stop at 33rd street and people jostle her as they get off. Then a few push on. A second before the door closes she turns and she is gone. I struggle to get up. Her white blouse and black hair are swallowed by the crowd. It is too late. The train moves on and I sit down. I reach my stop, climb up to the street and turn for home. I no longer feel aroused or excited, instead I feel privileged to have been trusted. And although I know the story will excite him, there is no way I will tell my husband. It is too special to share. Instead I'll store it away, to be replayed in my mind on special occasions. I'll remember the swaying rhythm, the sweaty heat and the insistent desperate pressure against my elbow. I can still feel it now. Copyright © 2000 Rich Denis. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post. 
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