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Their eyes had met at the turnstile….his fare ticket had been returned with a “See Attendant” notice, and his blush was very noticeable against his blonde beard. Rachael smiled sympathetically as he moved aside and let her through.

Sexy eyes she thought to herself as she walked to the escalator descending to the train platform. Hearing the train doors open, she ran quickly down the slowly moving stairway and arrived just in time to see the doors closing and the train pulling away. “Nutz!” she mumbled under her breath, and moved to her accustomed queue position, where she opened her novel.

The ill-fated mad dash to the train platform had made her warm and she removed her long coat, dropping her book in the process. As she bent over to pick it up, her rear end bumped against the person in back of her, and she swiftly straightened, turning to apologize. Now it was her turn to blush as she saw that same blonde beard and sexy eyes she had encountered upstairs at the turnstile. She had noticed him many times before, and had imagined he had watched her a few times as well, although she didn’t think it was true.

She averted her eyes quickly, not knowing what his thoughts were, but she couldn’t restrain her own. She tried to go back to her book, but couldn’t concentrate. The stranger had stepped forward to the side to look down the tunnel for an oncoming train, and she could see the slight bulge in his suit pants in spite of the jacket he held over his arm. He stepped back in place behind her, and she went back to her story.

Soon, she felt something push gently up against her ass, which felt much like a briefcase. He must have made a mistake, she thought, and mentally forgave him. Shifting from one foot to the other, she couldn’t help fantasizing about this stranger behind her. She had noticed he was about her age, of average height and weight; the kind of teddy bear she would love to hold and suckle. His face was that average-guy good looking, with strong cheekbones (what she could see beneath his beard), and smiling blue eyes.

Well, what am I doing day-dreaming about him” she asked herself. After all, he probably wouldn’t even LOOK at me. She unobtrusively tugged at her slightly snug blouse, smoothing it over her breasts, and rounded hips.

She had been uncomfortable all day, noticing how this blouse accentuated her large breasts, and how the new brassier she was wearing held them up and allowed them to bounce MUCH too much when she walked.

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Third of the “Deb’s Tails” series. There are more in the works; Deb has told me several others, I just need to find the time to write them down.

My wife, Deborah, often tells me “bedtime stories” of her sexual adventures. Some of them I know are true, either because I was there, or because she has corroborative evidence. Some of them, I’m sure, are fictional. Others, I’m just not sure about.

I don’t know about the truth of this one. It sounds like the kind of thing she’d do if she were in the right mood, but since I wasn’t there, I can’t vouch for it.

If you’ve ever heard anything about the New York subways, you probably think you know what they’re like. Noisy, obnoxious, and crowded. Most of the time that’s true, but as any New Yorker will tell you — once you get past his pride in living in the least livable city in the country — that some trains can be practically empty if you pick the right times and routes. Many evenings, around 10 or 11, even the busiest routes start emptying out, and by midnight it’s sometimes possible to have a car to yourself.

In all fairness to New York, though, it does have it’s good points. The Circle Line is one of them. It’s a mini-cruise around Manhattan (it is an island, you know!) Any place that’s got a decent-sized body of water has something similar. Seattle has trips around Puget Sound, New Orleans has riverboats running along the river. The Circle Line cruise is really beautiful at night with the city all lit up, but in the middle of winter, you can — and probably will — freeze your ass off.

Deb and I often have separate social lives — an inevitable reaction to work-related gatherings where people sit around and talk shop. What usually happened in New York was that I’d stay home and play with my techie-toys while she was out partying with her colleagues, or she’d stay home with a book while I was out cheering for the Mets. Naturally, that meant a few solo subway rides for both of us, often at somewhat odd hours.

This is the story of one of those trips as Deb told it to me (albeit, with my title).

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I hated this feeling. I can can tell exactly where he is standing: over to the side and back a bit. Around the corner of the bar and moving into the hallway. To the bathrooms? Sigh. I am feeling, well, heh, warmed up.

Mmm. If I take a deep breath [BJ breaths in], I can feel the my top tighten against my breasts. As there is no bra tonight, I can feel my nipples rub across the knit fabric. A thick yarn. Rub, rub. My legs too; movement, or squeezing is good. There is that slippery sensation and a bit of dampness on my panties. Arrgh!

What would he be like? I’d love to run my hands through his hair; to feel his hair tickling my fingers. To trace a finger down his chest. What would the hair be like on his legs? Soft and fuzzy like some forest animal? Or strong, tickling my hands as they rubbed his inner thighs? To kiss his neck. He has a beautiful neck. I love to kiss necks; a sloppy sucking kind of a kiss. His ears too. Then to move down to his chest. Maybe nibble a nipple? Wonder what he likes. Across his stomach, which I imagine as a washboard. And then, oh! I should stop thinking like this! Dam it, I’m married!

I open my eyes. Hey — where did Jamie go? Oh, there out slithering with that guy she met on the dance floor. They look like they are having fun. If anything Jamie says is true, boy is he in for a treat tonight! Wish someone would do that sort of thing to me!

Wait. Here he comes again. I can feel that tugging in between my legs. I try to squeeze it way, but it is still there. And stronger. It must be really wet. Mmmm. Oh! He’s coming closer. Checking me out. Ah yes, the usual male scan. Rests a while on my breasts — I push them out and feel my sweater rub across my nipples. Wonder if he saw the expression on my face. Moves down to my legs. I’m wearing a short mini-skirt so he should get an eyeful.

Yikes! Eye contact. I’m locked. I can feel a flood of heat into my face. Good thing the strobe lights, etc. don’t show anything. He looks around at the dance floor. At Jamie. Why did he do that? Back at me. Oh my! He’s coming over. He’s asking me to dance!

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“I hereby give myself over to chronic masturbation”, I announced to myself. My words were chopped up in the ceiling fan and then fell dead in the silent flat. Traveling alone to Cairns, Australia was exciting in one way. I mean there is the barrier reef and islands and topless beaches. But in other ways, such as at nine at night and being in a place where there were strict blue laws, well it was not so exciting. But laying in bed and lubing my prick with baby oil was giving me very little satisfaction. I felt restless. I had to move.

That is why I ended up cruising the bars. One was sort of fun. I danced with some women but nothing seemed to spark and the music and noise became too much to bear. Finally I stumbled on the sidewalk of a storefront (oh yeah, I guess I drank a few blue tinnies also) in which the window was blackened out. It was about a block from the docks where the reef boats departed and it looked deserted. There was an “ADULTS ONLY” sign on the painted black glass. I decided to give it a shot.

The inside was much cleaner and brighter than the outside would have suggested. The walls were covered with racks which contained soft porn magazines. Directly in front of me was a glass case which contained various dildos and fake vaginas (one that even pulsated!). To the right was a curtained entrance way which had a handwritten sign over top: FIVE DOLLARS – ALL DAY.

What really caught my eye was who was behind the counter. I couldn’t believe that a woman who looked like that could work in such a place. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, slender, with short blonde hair. Contained in a loose string tie top were two perky, firm looking breasts. She was busy SEWING! of all things and every time she pulled the thread there was a solid but definite tremor under her top. Her nipples stood out as they rubbed against the fabric like the tips of two pinkie fingers.

“What does five dollars all day mean”, I interrupted her conversation and pointed to the sign.

She looked up, her eyes were blue, and she smiled.

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She awoke at midnight again, the way she had for the past three nights, the sheets twisted tightly into an umbilical cord binding her to the sweaty womb of her bed.

She disentangled herself from the tangled topsheet and laid back, closing her eyes. Immediately the dream from which she had awakened flashed into her consciousness: the utter darkness and the sudden, dim, slanting light; the stranger, the man she had seen and followed; the small anonymous room; the smell, the feel of him; the awful, all-consuming hunger.

She opened her eyes quickly, sat up and turned on the nightstand light to dispel the vision. No sense trying for sleep now, she thought. Why the dream had come, why it affected her, consumed her like this, she did not know; but for now it would not leave her.

She lit a cigarette, hoping to concentrate on that and occupy her mind, dispel the terrible demon that was the dream with the mundane, the ordinary. She sat back against the headboard, and without thinking closed her eyes tiredly.

Instantly the dream filled her vision again. A dark restaurant, club, bar, a place she had never been; a man she did not know — no, did not *want* to know; the small room, featureless apart from a bed against one wall, without blankets or frame or headboard; the feel of him against her, on top of her; feeling him between her legs, parting them, dividing her (divide and conquer, a part of her mind thought, unbidden), opening her….

She started suddenly, looking down. As of its own volition, her hand was caressing her bare thigh, grasping it, pulling her leg away from its mate…opening her….

She stubbed out the cigarette and jumped to her feet, her heart racing, pounding. This is ridiculous, she thought, pacing the floor. It’s a dream. *Only* a dream. I’m in control; it only affects me as much as I want it to.

Instantly upon thinking the phrase she stopped her pacing. The truth penetrated her mind: she *did* want it to affect her, to consume her. She wanted a reality to match the dream.

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