As always, I was left with only fragments of my dreams: rounded curves, low feminine moans, the sensation of sliding into warmth. And, of course, a massive erection I knew I'd have no time to do anything about. It's not that my job was so important that I couldn't afford to be late, at least not on a global level. Managing telemarketers wasn't saving lives, making millions, or solving society's ills, after all, but it was a paycheck, and somehow, I'd discovered that I was rather good at it. Good enough that I might be able to edge my way past Julie into the soon-to-be-vacant Account Manager job. From there, the financial stability from which I could start to pursue my real passion: writing.
And so, I limited myself to a stroke or two in the shower before tucking myself into my Aspiring Manager best (guaranteed to accentuate my height, my broad shoulders, and my blue eyes, according to a no-nonsense sales clerk at the too-expensive Williamsburg boutique) and making my way through the turnstile to the subway platform.
It was crowded, even more than normal, with my fellow earnest and tryful worker bees, all jostling for entry into the just-arrived Manhattan-bound A train. I slid on at the last second, pushing up against a tall woman in a grey skirt, who had to reach out for the rail to steady herself against my imposition. I bent my head down, and in a voice that came out lower and huskier than intended, said, "Sorry" to her glossy hair and long neck.
The train jostled to life, and her head turned enough that I could see one brown eye and one half of her red lips. The eye traveled up to my face, and those lips curled into a half smile that I took to mean I was forgiven. I leaned back against the train door, trying to create a little space between us. My gentlemanly impulse, however, was for naught, as her ass, seemingly of its own volition, eased back against me.
