Whimpering, I didn’t think I could take it anymore between the ruthless banging, clit flicks, and licks of his tongue. My pussy throbbed as a wildfire raced through my body, shamelessly kindling every nerve inside me, from my head to my toes. I was about to implode.
“I think I’m going to come!” I cried out, the vibrations of the speeding train bringing me even closer to the edge.
“Hang in there, baby.”
On my next heated breath, I felt him explode with a massive blast of his release.
“Yes, Saarah,” he roared, drawing out my name.
I simultaneously convulsed around him, my own epic orgasm sending wave after wave of ecstasy soaring through my core. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I wasn’t sure if I was saying the words aloud or screaming them silently in my head. What was happening to me? I’d never had such a mind-blowing experience.
Slowly, he withdrew from me. I was surprised at how big and rigid his sheathed cock still was. Without taking his smoldering eyes off mine, he slid off his spent condom and tossed it into the waste dispenser. Snatching a paper towel, he cleaned himself up and then tucked his thick length back into his pants. I don’t think he was wearing underwear either.
“Saarah,” he said, grinning as he zipped up his fly, “do you still have to pee?”
“Yes,” I stammered, as I pulled up the remains of my pantyhose and slipped on my skirt. I was shaking, dazed, and drained from his plundering. He, on the other hand, looked totally together like he was ready to go into a board meeting.
Trainman rolled his eyes and then let me pee in peace. And privacy.
Re-locking the door, I sat on the toilet longer than I needed to, tremors tearing through me. After putting my boots back on, I gazed at the big rip in my pantyhose in the so-called “reinforced” crotch area. My inner thighs trembled. The events that had just happened spun around in my head while orgasmic vibrations were still coming at me with the force of a rockslide. Why did I let myself do this? Why? Neediness? Insecurity? Maybe a desperate escape from the anguish my stricken mother was causing? Or just because this man was the sexiest beast I’d ever laid my eyes on? Finally, I tore off a generous piece of toilet paper and wiped by bottom from front to back just like my mother had taught me. A crimson stain soaked the soft white paper. I was bleeding. Reality hit me like a brick. I had just lost my virginity to a stranger on a train.
In a state of mild shock, I slowly raised myself from the toilet, pulled up my damp, crotchless hose, and washed my hands in the sink that now held so many memories for me. I splattered a little of the cold water on my face and sipped some from my hands to quench my parched mouth. For the first time, I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection startled me. My hair was disheveled; my big brown eyes half-moons, and my full-lipped mouth locked in a parted pout. I was no longer the girl who, only minutes ago, had almost been squished by a pair of automatic train doors. I looked like a woman. A woman who had just been fucked. Big time.
Hastily, I fixed my ponytail and splashed some more water on my face. I took another glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not too much better, but at least better. Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the door and made my way back to my seat. My legs were like Jell-O and my body was shaking. And between my inner thighs, my pussy was blazing.
Trainman flashed a dimpled smile when he saw me staggering down the aisle. Though cocky, it was dazzling, and his blue eyes glinted with victory. I was once again aroused by his gorgeousness. As I continued my walk of shame, I thought about how cool, calm, and collected he looked. Maybe he was a pro at this routine—find a sweet, innocent girl like me and have her kiss her V-card goodbye. Another typical ride home. And I was just a number.
My heart rattled at the thought as I neared him. This time in true gentlemanly fashion, he rose from his seat and let me slide into mine with a modicum of grace. We were back to sitting side by side.
As the speeding train passed through different neighborhoods, from the poorest to the toniest, we shared a self-imposed silence. He was back to reading his Wall Street Journal so I kept my head turned, looking out the window. A million questions whirled around in my head. I wondered—who was this man?…what did he do?…why did he choose me?…would I ever see him again? The last question troubled me the most. With a growing feeling of having been used, I swiveled my head and stared at his spectacular, high-cheekboned profile that showed off his long lashes, strong chin, and fine Roman nose. What was he thinking? Why was he ignoring me? The impassive look on his face made his thoughts unreadable, and it frustrated me to no end.
Jesus. He’d just fucked my brains out. Stolen my virginity. And he wasn’t talking to me. I thought about snatching his precious newspaper out of his hand and blurting, “Just for your information, I’m a virgin. Or up until five minutes ago, I was a virgin.” But the consequences of my actions frightened me. I feared he might laugh at me. I didn’t need to feel more insignificant and used than I already did.
Unfortunately, the aftershocks of my insane orgasm were not dying down, and in fact, intensified with the friction of the train zooming over the tracks. Overwhelmed by the long day’s events and a mixture of remorse and regret, I set my comfy leather chair into a reclining position while Ari pulled out his iPhone from his briefcase and caught up on emails. His skilled hands moved quickly on the touch screen keyboard. God, he was good with those fingers! But he continued to ignore me as if I didn’t exist. With a heavy heart, I peered out the window and again soaked in the scenery. An empty feeling fell over me at the memory of his fullness inside me. Before long, I couldn’t keep my eyes open and drifted off.
CHAPTER 5
Ari
She looked adorable as she slept. Her head had fallen on my shoulder and soft snoring emanated from her slightly-parted full lips. I didn’t have it in me to wake her and instead continued to respond to my endless emails on my cell phone. I ran a global conglomerate and the work didn’t stop at six o’clock. With offices around the world, I worked 24/7. There was always another fire to put out or some decision requiring my attention.
But it was hard to concentrate with her so close to me, her sweet touch and scent sending bolts of desire to every part of my body. I had fucked her. Fucked her hard. And I’d loved every fucking minute. She was so frickin’ tight, almost like a virgin, but I knew that wasn’t possible with the way she fucked. It was the best damn orgasm I’d ever had, one that had barreled through me like a freight train, taking me to a place I’d never been.
I was still a bit stunned by my actions, especially since I’d never done this with a stranger on a train before. Especially not with a beautiful stranger, who I’d fantasized about for months. Most of the time, another self-absorbed suit sat next to me. But today, the unpredictable beauty named Fate had taken his place. I’d often heard that Fate was a bitch, and believe me, I knew her, but this Sarah—oh Saarah—must have been her angelic twin sister. I planted a chaste kiss on her silky hair trying to process my emotions and contemplate my next step. Any form of involvement was so not what I wanted. I’d been with a lot of women, all of them conveniently disposable. Not one had sent me to the moon like she had. While I drunk in my brunette beauty, with her intelligent, sensuous face, not a single stop sign popped up in my head. She was different. Impulsively, I kissed the top of her head again.
As the train made its next stop and the conductor shouted out the name of the station, she stirred, and the large satchel bag on her lap tumbled to the floor, spreading its contents at her feet. I cast my eyes down and surveyed the array. Not too bad. Carefully, without waking her, I bent over and picked up the satchel, and then retrieved each item that had spilled out, one by one. First her thin red wallet. I know I shouldn’t have been nosy, but curiosity got the better of me. I unzipped it and wasn’t surprised it didn’t contain much money—a single twenty dollar bill and about a dollar’s worth of change in the coin compartment. Tucked inside were a Visa card and her driver’s license. I slipped the latter out and st
udied it. The photo looked just like her—with her high cheekbones, full lips, and wide-set brown eyes; she photographed like a million bucks. So her full name was Sarah Greene; she was twenty-five-years old having just celebrated a birthday, five feet nine, weighed one hundred twenty pounds, and she lived on the West Side. Two twenty-five West Forty-Fifth Street in the heart of the theater district. I committed the address to memory and then slid the wallet back into her bag.
The next item I retrieved was a small leather notebook that looked to be a journal of sorts. I flipped it open and began to read it. Every page was filled with famous sayings and lines—some inspirational, others humorous, and a few quite profound. I skimmed them quickly, chuckling when I came to the last one: Think big. I shared the same philosophy; bigger was definitely better.
After putting the journal back into her bag, I reached for another notebook—a sketchpad—with one hand, and with my other, I gathered up a mechanical pencil and a pack of colored ones. After dropping the pencils in her bag, I opened the pad. On the inside cover was a message:
IMPORTANT!
If found, please return!!!
Call me at 212-555-9696 or email me at [email protected]
THANKS!!
Girl toy was more like it I thought, flashing back to our bathroom encounter. My still swollen cock stirred at the thought. I quickly added her name and phone number along with her email address to my contact list on my cell phone before leafing through the pages of the notebook. Page after page was filled with impressive portraits of a young woman with soulful eyes who looked a lot like her—perhaps an older sister? An interspersed among these drawings were detailed sketches of weird looking creatures, gizmos, and vehicles. She must be some kind of designer or artist. With her bohemian attire, she looked like the artsy type. She was indeed very talented…in many ways.
I carefully placed the sketchpad back in her bag. Bending down again, I reached for a plain white envelope. Unsealed. I peeked inside at the contents—it looked to be a ticket to an event. Curious, I removed it and my eyes grew wide—it was a ticket to the highly coveted Black Eyed Peas reunion concert tonight in the park. They’d sold out quickly in less than twenty-four hours, and even I, with all my connections, couldn’t score one. Who the hell was she and who did she know? Maybe Ms. Artsy had a boyfriend connected to the band. Or fucked one of them. Jealousy, an emotion that was alien to me, raised its ugly green tail in my chest.
She stirred again, and afraid she might wake up, I quickly put the envelope with the ticket back inside her satchel and gathered up the rest of her belongings. Some lip gloss, a hairbrush, a few loose receipts, a tampon, a hair elastic, a checkbook with a balance of eighty dollars, a set of keys, and several packs of Big Red gum. For toting such a large bag, she sure didn’t carry all that much. “Less is more,” my late father always preached, but I knew better than that as I glanced down at my still raging cock. And somehow, I thought there was much more to this girl than met the eye.
CHAPTER 6
Sarah
“Last stop, New York Penn Station.”
The loud announcement woke me with a bang. Startled, I blinked my eyes open, to find my head resting on Ari’s broad shoulder. Embarrassment swept over me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself.
“Don’t be.” He flashed a quick dimpled smile that rendered me breathless.
As other commuters stood up, he helped me to my feet, the touch of him sending goosebumps up my arms.
“Ladies first.”
As I side-stepped past him and made my way to the automatic sliding doors, the sinking feeling that I might never see him again set in. The train ride was over.
Penn Station was stinking hot, bustling with commuters and tourists, and it wasn’t even summer yet. It tasted, smelled, and sounded like 30th Street Station’s ugly stepsister. Ari clasped my hand as we wove our way in and out of the ruthless crowd of rush hour commuters and ubiquitous homeless. His hand was warm, the grip firm but not too tight. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, his stride a blend of grace and arrogance. He was clearly an expert, manipulating this oppressive swarm of people. Despite having lived in the city for almost three years and taking my share of subways, I had yet to master the impatient New Yorkers always in a hurry to get where they were going.
Silence prevailed between the two of us as we made our way through the throng. Only the hum of the vast station sung in my ears. It, however, did little to quiet the turbulence whirling around in my head or the turbulence centered between my legs. I had lost my virginity to a man I would likely never see again. A man I craved but could never have. As the exit sign came into view, I started thinking about my exit line. “Nice knowing you.”…“Thanks for taking away my V-card.”…“Thanks for the memories.”…“Have a nice life.” If he weren’t dragging me through the station at breakneck speed to the point I was almost jogging to keep up with him, my heavy heart would have slowed me down. The truth was I didn’t want to say goodbye to this beautiful stranger on a train and was dreading it.
Suddenly, a sharp tug from behind followed by a forceful shove sent my jumble of thoughts to a screeching halt and me tumbling onto the filthy Penn Station floor. Stunned and stinging with pain, I caught sight of my assailant, a skinny Latino youth running through the crowd with my bag. My keys! My cell phone! My wallet! My identity! And the cash I needed to get through the weekend!
“Little fucker!” yelled my companion, taking off in hot pursuit.
Staggering to my feet, my eyes could not believe the speed with which his long legs carried him. It was like watching a scene from Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise or some stunt double running after the bad guy. My assailant glanced back at Trainman, panic washing over his face as he saw my action hero gaining ground. Even as the bad guy picked up speed, the gap narrowed until Trainman pounced on him, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay sprawled on the ground between Ari’s powerfully splayed knees, his face frozen with fear.
Gripping the lad by a clump of his greasy ebony hair, Ari yanked him to his feet. The boy was shaking and near tears, and I was taken by how slight he was compared to my tall, mighty, broad-shouldered hero. The boy surrendered my bag and defensively raised both hands, clearly afraid that his captor might strike him. Still clasping his hair, my hero lifted the youth until his Nikes no longer touched the ground. The boy grimaced in pain. And then Ari lowered him. I was close enough to hear him growl.
“Now, get the fuck out of here, you little twerp.”
He released the boy, who, wasting no time, sprinted through the station without looking back. He then wheeled around, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on me. I was shaking—unsure if it was from the shock of being violated or the shock that this devastating man had risked his life for me. I mean, the kid could have had a knife. Taking long strides, Ari loped my way.
“You okay?” he asked, his concerned blue eyes surveying every inch of my body.
“Yeah,” I managed.
Glancing down, I noticed patches of grime on my beige skirt. My right knee hurt from the fall. I lifted up the skirt by its hem to check it out. No blood. Just a large hole in my pantyhose—though it was a mere fraction of the hole between my crotch. Embarrassment crept through me as Ari handed me by bag. It was intact and in one piece.
“Hold on to this,” he said, his frown curling into a wry, but oh-so-sexy smile.
I quirked a quick smile back. My gaze met his once again, and I was immediately aware of the post-orgasmic waves crashing against my pelvis. My heart thudded. Thank goodness the buzz of the crowded station drowned out the sound.
“Saarah, I’m having drinks with someone,” he said, his eyes still holding me fiercely.
He needed to say no more. He was meeting some stunning supermodel. The type of woman he belonged with. My heart sunk. It was time for my exit line.
“Um, okay,” I spluttered. “Thanks for everything.” Yes, everything.
Without not so mu
ch as a goodbye, I sprung toward the exit sign. With hot tears clustering behind my eyes, I walked blindly through the throng of impatient commuters and filthy bums begging for money, brushing up against more than I wanted. It was over. I’d reached my final destination. My scenes from a movie were over. I didn’t even know a thing about him. His last name. Where he lived. What he did. What did it matter? I’d probably never see him again. It was just a fluke thing that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I shrugged my shoulders and inwardly sighed. Yet, there was so much of me that kept hoping I would feel his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me dead in my tracks. Spinning me around. Pulling my head back with a yank of my ponytail. Sinking his lips into mine and then parting them with his tongue, gifting me a kiss that lasted for an eternity right in the middle of Penn Station. That’s what happened in movies. With wishful thinking, I stole a glance back over my shoulder. Ari was hugging a tall, drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a chic suit. Just his type. A mixture of envy and self-pity pulsed through me. Facing front and fighting back tears, I quickened my pace. Why was I fooling myself? My West Side Story was a dream. My life was a reality show. A really lame reality show.
CHAPTER 7
Ari
Gwen looked as stunning and as put together as ever. In a chic olive green pantsuit and stylish heels that accentuated her lean build and her enviable height. With her mane of flaming red hair and lankiness, she could have easily been a model. Grace Coddington, the legendary lookalike Creative Director of Vogue, had once scouted her on the street in The Village when she was seventeen and begged her to model—even offered to introduce her to all the top modeling agencies and pay for her comps, but my brainy, Wellesley-bound companion had no interest. A feminist, she was way more interested in saving the world and fighting for the rights of women than in saving Calvin Klein’s sagging career.
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