In the northwest corner of the Bronx, one of the five boroughs of New York City, a subway line begins, the #1 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 #1 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 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, 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 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.

On one Tuesday morning the train was delayed just after leaving 242nd Street; apparently the 8:52 train before us had a mechanical problem. We sat for about 10 minutes, during which time the train crew kept us informed of our situation with a series of utterly garbled announcements: “THA GRAPPA HANNA SOO WILL BE KERO KERA BLACK! HARPELS GUNG FRESS TO BRAKKA!” When we started up again, we were quite obviously only a minute or two behind the earlier train, as there were very few people getting on at each stop. The delayed train was surely stuffed with passengers, but the platforms were nearly empty when we arrived immediately after.

There was no one standing between us. In fact, there was no one standing in the car at all and there were actually empty seats. Since I could see her upper body in addition to her legs, and since she was not reading a newspaper but rather a magazine in her lap, I could look at her face over the top of whatever it was I was reading at the time. It might have been a textbook called “Gravity,” as I think of it now. She sat as she always did, with her knees just far enough apart for me to glimpse her stockings and her thighs, though this morning I could not see the color of her underwear. At one point, as I looked up from my book, she looked up simultaneously and our eyes met. I intended to smile at her, but before I could even begin to, she looked completely shocked and a bit flustered. She instantly looked down at the magazine in her lap and her brow furrowed. In seconds she looked angry.

I was shocked as well. I had never looked directly into her eyes before, and I had certainly never made an overt acknowledgement of her presence during all the time we had ridden together. Her angry appearance embarrassed me. I felt my face flush and I knew I was showing the telltale redness that itself worsened my embarrassment. The remainder of that trip to 116th Street was agony for me as I tried to focus on my textbook. When the doors opened at 116 I jumped up and ran for the exit. I have no idea what she did; I avoided looking at her at all. I did, however, keep my appointment to masturbate. I have a routine.

My OCD is a convenience at times; it keeps me on schedule, at least. Occasionally my OCD is a trap that I can’t escape from, as it was the next morning when, at 8:58, I settled into “my” seat in the subway car. As my friend walked into the subway car at 9:00 precisely, she apparently kicked a small bit of white paper that was on the floor of the car. Noticing it, she picked it up and for the first time, said something to me as she held it out for me to take: “Did you drop this?” I was so startled that I took it as I said, or rather grunted, “Hm?” She ignored me after that and sat in her customary seat, opening up her New York Times and folding it to the editorial page.

I looked at the paper, which was an old-fashioned calling card with a single line of print on it: “Marilyn Josephson.” It was made of a thick paper stock and the lettering was actually embossed, as it would be from a genuine stationer rather than from an online service. On the back, written in blue ink that appeared to be from a fountain pen, was this: “Call 212-555-4097 if you wish to discuss our behaviour.”

When I looked up, she – Marilyn? – was sitting across from me as usual. For the second time in fifteen seconds I was startled, utterly astonished really, by this: she was wearing a pants suit! She carried her slim black leather case and her New York Times, and it was certainly her, but I was completely thrown. She did not look at me as the car filled up, and from 242nd Street to 116th Street the remainder of my ride was normal. She kept her legs and knees as she always did, but there was no flash of thigh to see. My memory is good, though, which made it possible for me to masturbate as usual from 9:52 to 10:02, recalling the many times I had seen her thighs and her pussy, even as it was hidden behind the cotton, lace, or nylon of her undergarments. That day, in fact, I believe I came much harder and faster than usual because of the novelty of the situation.

I take a break at 11:45 every morning that I don’t teach a class, and that is a time that I don’t usually schedule for a specific activity. That morning I closed the door to my office and looked at my telephone. Inhaling deeply, once, and blowing out my cheeks as I exhaled, I said out loud, “OK, do this.” I dialed the number on the card quickly, before I could find a reason to delay. The phone rang once, and a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I believe you gave me a calling card this morning with this number to call. About our behavior?”

“Yes. I did. Do not speak again unless I ask you a direct question. Do you understand?”

“What?”

“I told you not to speak again if you want to continue this call, other than as an answer to a direct question from me. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Uh… yes.”

“I know everything about you that I care to know, which is nothing at all other than your appearance. You now know my name and a telephone number to call if you wish to speak with me. If we continue to have this relationship, that will be the extent of our knowledge of each other. Does that satisfy you?”

“I don’t know about ‘satisfy,’ exactly, but...”

“ ‘Answer questions directly,’ I said. If you cannot obey that requirement I will end this call and accept no further calls from you. This is the last warning. Do my terms satisfy you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I have been showing you myself every morning for many weeks. I do this because it satisfies me. I kept myself covered this morning to remind you that it is my choice alone to do so. I do not wish to have any other interaction with you. I do not wish to greet you; I do not wish to know who you are; I do not wish to know anything at all about you, other than this: Do you enjoy seeing me expose myself?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I enjoy being seen. You are the only person I show myself to every day. I dress carefully, so that I can look good for the general public, but I also dress very carefully to give you a thrill, if I can. Do I thrill you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you masturbate after you see me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you masturbate on a schedule, the way you commute on a schedule?”

“Yes.”

“What is your schedule for masturbating?”

“I masturbate each day after I leave the train in the morning. I reserve the time from 9:52 to 10:02 to do that.”

“Do you masturbate on Saturdays or Sundays?”

“Yes.”

“On what schedule do you masturbate on the weekend?”

“I masturbate at the same time, from 9:52 to 10:02. I like routine.”

“I masturbate thinking of you each evening at 9:15. Does that please you?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Can you masturbate a second time each day?”

“Yes, I’m sure I can.”

“Good. I wish you to masturbate each evening at 9:15 with me. There will be no contact between us at that time, but you must do it. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes. May I…”

“I did not ask you a question.”

“Yes.”

“Now, then. I will permit you to call me exactly once each month, on the first Monday of each month, at this number. At that time you may ask me to wear a single item of clothing, including shoes, at some time during the next month. I may or may not grant your request. The choice is mine. The only way you will know whether or not I grant it is if you see me wearing that item. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“This time is inconvenient for me to accept a call from you. You will call me at 2:45 in the afternoon on the first Monday of each month to make your request. If you do not call at exactly that time on exactly that day, you will be denied contact with me until the next month’s first Monday. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I have the telephone number you are using to place this call. Will you be using this number in the future?”

“Probably not.”

“What is the number that you will use?”

“718-555-3441.”

“Very well. If you do not use that number or the one you are using now, I will not answer the call at 2:45 on the first Monday. If you call at any other time, I will not answer the call. Do you understand those terms and accept them?”

“Yes.”

“There is another requirement of you. You must never, never, attempt to speak to me on the subway in the morning. You must never, never, give any sign that you know me. You will not greet me. You will not make eye contact with me. You will not so much as pick up any item that I drop. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You are behaving well. Because you are, I will give you a single chance to speak to me. You may also ask me a question. One question. What do you wish to say?”

“Well, thank you for that. I love being the person that you’ve chosen to engage like this, even though I do think it’s kind of weird. It feels like a really strange New York City subway story, the kind that you hear about but never believe. Still, I’m game if you are, and thanks again! The one question I do have is this: How did you choose me to expose yourself to?”

“I have been looking for someone else who must adhere to a schedule and a routine. I’ve been isolated and lonely because of my own needs for structure in my life. When I encountered you in the first week of your commute, I wasn’t sure that you were like me in that way, but I had hopes. I tested your willingness to be discreet, and you passed that test. I chose you because you understand the need for rules in the same way I do. We can help each other in ways that people who don’t understand that need can’t. If you keep your side of this bargain, I will keep my side of the bargain. If I choose to change the terms of our agreement, I will tell you. You may not change anything unless I permit you to. Does that satisfy you for now?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. I will be on the 9:04 #1 train tomorrow morning. I know you will be there. Do not forget to masturbate tonight at 9:15. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I am also. Good bye.”

And then she hung up. I sat in my office with a raging erection, but my schedule didn’t allow me to masturbate at that time of day. I went through my work day as usual, went home at the usual time, and had dinner at the usual time. That evening at 9:10 I undressed and lay down on my bed, watching my alarm clock. I grew an erection instantly thinking about what would happen next, but I didn’t touch myself until 9:15:00 exactly. At that time I began to stroke myself, and I’m sorry to say I was so excited that I blasted a quart of cum onto my own chest within thirty seconds. I might have tried to keep going, but she hadn’t given me permission to do that, so I couldn’t. Rules are rules.

The next morning at 8:59 I sat in my usual seat. At 9:01 Marilyn Josephson sat across from me, wearing a black suit consisting of a knee-length skirt and a short jacket; it appeared to be made of silk. Her blouse was a deep cream color, and it was certainly silk. It was a fine enough fabric that I could easily make out that her bra was unpadded and lacy, though it was opaque, so I couldn’t see anything but its outline. She wore black patent stiletto heels, easily 4” in height, with off-black stockings that for the first time had seams up the back, as I saw when she crossed in front of me to sit down. She wore a chunky gold necklace, but small gold studs in her ears. As usual, she was beautiful and sexy in her elegant and sophisticated manner.

She sat comfortably in her seat. Her knees parted just a bit and I could see that this day she wore white lingerie. Her garters were white, which stood out against the black stocking welts. The tiny triangle of white that covered her pussy was also white. It was perfect.

She did not look at me or acknowledge my existence. I accepted this and enjoyed my ride to 116th Street. I masturbated on schedule at 9:52. That night, I masturbated again, on schedule at 9:15.

I am again very comfortable in my routine, knowing what the structure of my life is going to be like from now on. Marilyn will give me what I need.