I sighed, staring out the window as a thousand thousand raindrops pelted the rooftops and city streets like so many paintballs exploding in their reds, blues, and greens, the rain gave no indication of stopping. So much for Sandy Neck. I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in the aroma of the chamomile tea in my Wonder Woman mug; the warm apple-blossom smell mingled with lemon and honey gave a peaceful air, even as the steam fogged up my glasses. My phone lit up and sounded the familiar “dun duh” from Law and Order, Claire had probably come to the same conclusion as I had, what a shame though, we’d been planning our trip to the Cape for weeks. Claire’s boyfriend had even rented a boat and booked a beach house on Airbnb. Hopefully, he could get his deposit back. Still having three days off I decided the unexpected free time shouldn’t be wasted and headed to the T station with an umbrella.
As expected, Roxbury Crossing was anything but crowded, at the far end of the platform a young couple made out on the bench and an elderly man traced his fingers along the map, no doubt counting the number of stops before his destination. I did the same thing when I first moved here, I’d find the stop I needed and count the stops in between rather than learn the names of the stations; eventually, though, I had memorized their order – thanks in large part to the intercom announcements before and after each stop. As the subway train approached, I stood beside the escalator, planning to board the first car (as always) since it would most likely be empty. Right again. I turned immediately left in the car, at the very front of the trains are two seats and a big empty space meant for commuters who are wheelchair bound; I leaned against the wall, feet outstretched across both seats. Oh yeah! An entire car to myself – no drunks or screaming kids or old Chinese ladies who put their leaky bag of day-old fish on the seat beside you. Just silence and the gentle rocking of the car as it sped along the tracks.
Once the train departed the station, I opened my browser and searched “petite teen porn.” As the video started playing, I glanced around the train car to make sure I was still alone and turned the volume up to 50%. My fingers soon made their way to that familiar place beneath my skirt, working deftly against the cotton of my panties until they produced a small wet spot. I imagined being the girl in the video, sucking eagerly on the hard shaft of a clean-shaven man; my fingers slid beneath my panties, eliciting a soft moan as a second man grabbed the girl by the waist and thrust himself into her from behind. I worked myself into a fervor with practiced ease. My fingers, wet and sticky with my own juices created a hunger, an absolute need for satisfaction; I moaned loudly, on the edge of my release. The release never came, the doors of the train slid open at Chinatown, and I was no longer alone. I took a deep breath, composed myself with my hands folded neatly in my lap as though they’d been there the whole time. I wondered if the other passengers could smell my arousal. I could feel it, that painful feeling of wanting more, the pounding in my chest, the warmth between my legs. Fuck! I was almost there.
I got off at Quincy Center and began the short walk to Granville Street; a soft breeze blew in from the sea, making the warm summer air feel just right. Arriving at the small blue house, I was greeted by Andrew, my boyfriend’s younger brother.
