Four Days on the Paris Metro

The tip of my middle finger.

I held it there.

Right there.

My finger was trembling and I willed it to stop.

I summoned every shred of willpower in my body and mind and I channelled it down to the tip of my middle finger.

Look at your own middle finger. Maybe a square centimetre of skin, formed into the folds of a fingerprint.

The ridges of my fingerprint felt like a chain of mountains down there. It was moist, musky.

Rivers of her sweat flowed through the canyons between those mountains.

This universe, and any other, dissipated in an erotic fog.

I couldn't see if I tried, the whole world was a blur, a smudge, an aberration.

Only the tip of my middle finger touching her there, right there, existed in brilliant clarity.

Wait, wait, wait. Back up. Despite my the vivid sensation of that recent memory, I must back up. Three days. Three days, each composed of a thousand years. I must return to the beginning, not only for the sake of storytelling, but for my own sanity. If left unchecked I would remain a privileged fingertip and the rest of me would deteriorate into nothingness. I need to remember it all. My finger, there, is the middle of the story, as it was positioned at the middle of her.

Back up. Three days ago I was utterly and completely normal, dare I say uninteresting and anonymous. I think some woman called me attractive at a wedding in 1983. No, sorry. That was my wife and she was drunk. I have a good life. Nothing spectacular, no surprises, unthrillingly predictable. Without boring you with the details (and because the details of my own life bore me senseless) I live in Paris. I am an accountant. I commute on the Metro to my job at a small textile company. I know nothing about textiles, even after 15 years. I have been married to the same woman for 20 years. I know nothing about her but she is plump but cheery. We rarely have sex. I am plump and less cheery. I own four suits and wear one of them to work each day. I have two highlights in my life.

1. Each Sunday evening I decide which suit I will wear twice that week.

2. I look forward to the two evenings a month that Canal + shows erotic films.

I masturbate to these films. My wife is asleep in the bedroom of our little flat when I masturbate.

Oh, yes, and I make my own lunch.

DAY ONE

Last Monday started like any other. It started like all the Mondays of my life, it seemed. The only difference was the date. June 12.

Out of the flat carrying briefcase at 07:45 precisely. Down the stairs. Past the landlord's yapping, salivating chihuahua. Consider kicking it. Don't. Onto the street and down to the newspaper kiosk outside the Abbesses Metro station. Buy Le Monde. Tuck it under left arm. Down more stairs. Enter Metro turnstiles. Down more stairs to dangerously overcrowded platform. Force my way through the mob to the same spot where I wait for the same train door to stop. Train roars into station. Doors open. Take deep breath and lunge into the mass of people already on train. Try to find a strap to hold to. Briefcase between legs. Arrange paper with left arm and try to read the cover while a ton of human flesh forces my arm against my chest. Try to focus on words on paper only a couple of centimetres from my face. Ride 14 stops to Montparnasse. Force my way out of train, out of station, walk to office and begin work.

My god. I knew it was dull, but writing it down makes me want to vomit, collapse on floor, die. Not necessarily in that order.

To give last Monday a variation, the mocking powers above decided to push the mercury above 30 degrees. Celsius. Don't know what that is in the old system only still in use in Burma, Liberia and USA, but rest assured, it's hot. Above ground it's hot. In the depths below Paris it is an inferno.

Even as you approach the entrance to the Metro, you catch scent of the masses. That sickly sweet, pungent odour of human flesh releasing copious amounts of fluid through the pores. You get used to it.

It was hot and I began to sweat before I made it through the turnstiles. I'm plump so I sweat more. More than what, less than what, I have no idea.

The finger. Down there. Touching her there. Yes, of course.

I forced my way onto the train. Briefcase between legs, newspaper against nose. Arm in air holding strap. Not that it was needed, a sumo wrestler could stand on a crowded metro and be propped up without support, such is the weight of the humanity present.

The air in the train was thick with sweat mixed with the scent of expensive colognes and perfumes which were, in turn, diluted by the stench of cheap colognes and perfumes and deodorants. A cacophony of stenches. So far, just another summer Monday.

Until there, on Line 12 from Porte de la Chapelle to Mairie d'Issy and back again, the train jolted suddenly and the newspaper was knocked out of my hand. There, standing tucked into a corner, was a girl. A young woman. I saw her profile first. Her lips were parted and she panted ever so slightly due to the heat, I suppose. Her straight, dark hair hung around her neck and framed her delicate features. An unobtrusive nose, perfectly formed. Blue eyes that stared intensely out of the window at black tunnel walls - or rather staring through them to another world. Fine, fine eyebrows that added a constant look of curiosity and a vaguely mocking expression to her otherwise expressionless face.

I was stunned at my need to regard her. To stare pointedly, rudely at her. I was aware that my own mouth was open and despite the humidity, it was dry. She was beautiful. Lovely. She was radiant. This aging plump man suddenly became obsessed by this flowering pinnacle of youth and beauty. This aging plump man suddenly felt a pressing sensation in the trousers of one of his four suits. I was embarrassed but was helpless. My newspaper arm, now without the forgotten newspaper could hardly squeeze down, along my body to slide into my pocket and hold my growing erection tightly against my body lest another passenger would feel it thrusting rudely into their ribs or thigh. I wanted to badly to touch myself and feel this rare erection to see if it was true that it was mine. I can't remember the last spontaneous public erection I had. Well over two decades ago, in any case.

But this was now. This was a glorious Monday in June. Why hadn't I seen her before? Most of the other faces, however anonymous, were easily recognised. Commuters are creatures of habit, standing in the same place on the same train each day. But she was an unexpected burst of colour and desire. I caught myself sniffing slightly, trying to catch her scent through the sweaty fog. My nostrils flared, my eyes wide. I had lost control of my dick and my facial muscles. A glorious Monday.

Impossible. I heard the crackled, bored voice of the train driver announce my station. It couldn't be. Fourteen stops had vanished between my first glance at her in the corner. Reluctantly, I prepared for the stampede to the door. Like a school boy who is told he has to brush his teeth and go to bed. My body began to turn first, my head unwilling to take my eyes off of her. The whole journey she had stared out of the window. Until now. It was the slowest movement in the history of man. Her head turned to face me. I was sure she was looking past me, or rather, through me. Nobody ever looked directly at me. It's my lot. People speaking directly to me focused somewhere behind me head. Until now. She was staring at me. Expressionless but for her eyes. Even now I can't describe it. No singular message, no particular intention in those eyes. They merely fixed me with their intensity. It was a dream. Imagine the first person in two decades who looks you directly in the eyes and then have that person be such a glorious young woman, sent to grace this earth by Eros. To transform this stinking train into a chariot of the gods.

She stared at me. My breathing became laboured. I was sure I was salivating down my chin. Those eyes bore through me. Into my tired soul and straight down to my throbbing hard cock. Yes. I said cock. I haven't said that word since I was sixteen but I have to say it. Cock. My cock was hard. Her tongue crept out and moistened her lower lip. It was by no means intended to be erotic. Life isn't a porn film, after all. It was an unconscious physical act but it was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

The tide of bodies began to shift and I was caught in the undercurrent. Montparnasse is a main stop and everyone was getting off. Against my own free will I was carried with them, craning my neck to hold her gaze. Her eyes never left mine and even when I had to turn to leave, I could feel them on the folds on my neck. I was thrust out onto the platform, pushed on towards the exit. The doors closed. The train rumbled off.

DAY ONE - ADDENDUM

The image of her remained vivid, crystal-clear in my mind. Nevertheless, without her there, in person, I felt as though I was relegated to "dirty old man" as I sat at my ragged desk and tried to add and subtract numbers. I couldn't help it. I couldn't help myself. I hurried out to the toilet, flustered and frustrated as a horny young boy in the throes of hormones. With one hand against the wall of the stall, I fumbled like an epileptic, trying to release my cock from my trousers. It couldn't go quick enough. Finally, it sprang free. Harder, longer, thicker than it has been in years and I gripped it hard and jacked it fast, conscious of my low grunts but not caring if I was heard. I shot my sperm in ropes, unsuccessful in my attempts to control my cock and aim into the toilet bowl. I stood there, gasping and wheezing for several minutes, curiously focusing on the yellowish globs splattered across the toilet and the wall and the floor.

Slowly, I tucked my cock away, zipped up and dutifully began cleaning up my sordid mess.

I repeated this act three times that day.

She wasn't on the train that evening. I searched and searched but she was no where to be seen. I realised that I had only seen her face through the crowd. I wished to see her clothes, her shape.

DAY TWO

I was hopelessly optimistic. I was uncharacteriscally cheery. I was up in the night to masturbate into the sink in our toilet, rapidly jerking my cock to the image of her eyes and her tongue on her lower lip. There was a urgency in my step as I left the flat. I wanted to run but I knew that if I altered my routine in the slightest, I may catch an earlier train or miss the usual one. It was tortuous, forcing myself to do the same things at the same pace as I did every day.

On the platform my heart sank. A static announcement that the trains were delayed by five minutes. An eternity. Finally, the rattle and hum of Line 12 and the rush of air that proceeds each train. It was hotter today. 35 degrees, they said. I hardly noticed. The stench of humanity was filtered out and my nose searched for her unknown scent. My eyes narrowed in focus.

I boarded the train. Same doors, same spot. At the end of the carriage as always. I was sure there had never been so many tall people gathered in one carriage in the history of the Paris Metro. I couldn't see the corner where she stood the day before. I muscled my way - or rather blubbered my way - through the sardine can and the oily, putrid sardines. Two tall men blocked my view of the corner. I forced my way around them and... and... my god... and... there. There she was. Her petite frame tucked neatly into the protective corner. I was only a short distance away from her, quite unexpectedly. The distance from thumb to elbow. Strangely, there was a gap, an impossible gap on this crowded train, between her and I. I stared dumbly at her and realised I was staring at her back, her ass, her legs in that black skirt. She was facing away from me, her nose almost pressed against the window. I was disappointed at first. Oh, how I had longed to see her eyes again. Her mouth. That nose. Those eyebrows. That flawless, youthful complexion. That perfection.

But I quickly sucked up all the visual impressions into my hungry fantasy mind. Black heels with three thin straps draped over her feet and ankles. Tanned, smooth calves accentuated by youthful muscle, the back of her knees - yes, even the back of her knees were memorised - the thighs, my god, those thighs disappearing halfway up into the shadows of her little black, wrap-around skirt. Too short, I thought. Too dangerous. My instincts, the most base, animal instincts at the core of my soul, were already taking control and I feared what I may become capable of.

Upwards. The wrap-around skirt yielding at the bottom of the small of her back. Her waist tapered, her spine visible, unfettered by even an fraction of fat. Upwards to black once again. A tight halter-top that exposed more, far too much for my own good - of her back and which swept up to disappear under her arms and to wrap around her neck.

Arms, yes, the arms. Thin yet firm and toned. Long, so long, they seemed. All the way out to her fingers pressed against the glass. Finely filed nails without polish.

My god.

I heard the two tall men whispering and glancing down at her ass and legs. I felt anger and possessiveness. Without thinking, I moved quickly and resolutely into that impossible gap. Blocking their leers. Without thinking, for now I was positioned directly behind her. I grabbed frantically at a hanging strap and tried to hold my body back, avoiding touching her perfection. I stared down between us, to ensure that I didn't violate her with my body, with my cock again pressing insistently at my trousers, with my plump stomach hanging over my belt. I stared at her back. So young, so flawless. I rocked rigidly as the train began to shudder down the tracks. I let my eyes wander up her spine to her neck. Those strands of hair bouncing with the train's movements. Her spine disappeared into her hair and I wanted to brush it away. I wanted to see her neck.

Suddenly, with a smooth, fluid motion, her hand appeared from nothing, reached around her neck and swept her hair away and her neck was bared. Did she read my mind? Could she know of my lust? Could she smell it? My breath caught in my throat as I looked to the right of her head, into the glass window, and I saw her face. A reflection, sure enough, but as clear as day. And her eyes were fixed on me there. There was no doubt now. She was staring at me. Her mouth was closed, her lips resting together. Her nostrils, however, were flared slightly. Or was that me, imagining? Her steely-blue eyes, so intense, so filled with expression in their expressionless gaze. They penetrated me once again.

I couldn't look away. I contemplated how ridiculous my own expression must seem but she didn't comment on it with her eyes. Their were singular in their intent. If I was younger, if I was more experienced with women, I might have known. But I had no idea.

The train careened and screamed around a corner in the tunnel and, to my horror and delight, my body was thrust against her. There. Contact. I was helpless in thwarting my cock and it pressed against her ass. Firmly between her ass cheeks. My ample stomach made contact with her back and forced her up against the window.

I was witness to a glorious thing. Her fingers curled like a cat's claws against the glass. Seeking purchase. And her mouth, those lips, they parted. Her lower lip fell away from the upper and I heard, through the screaming of the train, a sharp exhalation of air that became a moan for a second before fading. Even without having much experience in such matters, I knew it was pleasure and her eyes confirmed it. They narrowed and never left mine.

What was I doing? A man like me had no good reason to be there, pressing his hard, hot cock against the ass of a young woman on Line 12 of the Paris Metro. But there I was nonetheless. Eyes locked, flesh mashed together, the clackety-clack of the steel rails vibrating up into our bodies.

The train straightened out and I reluctantly allowed my body to sway back into its original position, now light years from her lithe frame. For only a second, because in a quick, subtle move, she pushed against the glass and thrust her tight, firm ass backwards, eager for contact again. I obliged, unable to do otherwise for my instincts were ruling me now. I reciprocated and we stood there, pushing against each other, my cock nestling between her muscular ass.

She took the initiative. Her ass began to rise and fall, rubbing against my cock. My mouth fell open now and her lower lip was sucked inside her mouth. She bit her lip and held it there.

My one arm in the air, holding the strap, the other rested uselessly at my side. Until she found a use for it. One perfect hand left the glass and reached back to take mine. She led the way, resting my fingers on her hip, my fingertips gripping her hip bone, protruding beneath her wrap-around skirt. Her hand left mine and she placed it on the glass again, leaving me to figure out what to do. Which was obvious, even to me. I pulled her back against me, increasing the friction. Her ass moved against me. Her eyes hungrily on mine the whole time. We rocked and rubbed.

I could smell her now. I inhaled her scent. Not a trace of perfume or deodorant or washing powder. Just sweat, pure and fresh and vigorous.

My station was approaching. One more stop. I didn't want to disembark but she knew my stop from memory. She increased her ass motions, her rubbing. It became violent, or so it seemed. Nobody else was taking notice of us. It was too crowded. Through her black skirt, my cock was buried, or so it felt, between her ass and I was fucking her ass cheeks. They tensed against my cock and soon, all too soon, I felt my sperm, my seed, my cum rising. Unable to flow free, it spurted out against my underwear and seeped through my trousers and I pushed hard against her with every throbbing spurt. My body was electrified. I was aware of every drop of sweat flowing down my skin. My face, my neck, my back, my stomach, my legs. A thousand tiny bullets triggering a million nerve endings.

I came. The train stopped. She straightened her body. Was that a smile on her lips in the reflection? Hard to tell. But her eyes were pleased. She licked her lower lip again, like yesterday, and I surrendered to the crowd's urges and moved away, off the train.

DAY TWO - ADDENDUM

I walked to work with my briefcase in front of my cum-stained trousers. I cleaned up in the office toilet, drying my pants under the hot air blower. But not before I jacked off again.

She was everywhere. She was against my cock all day. Her sweat, so sweet, so luscious, was in my nostrils. Her eyes were in mine.

My wife didn't know what hit her. In bed that night I needed more than my hand and I rolled onto her and fucked her until I came. The fantasy is a powerful too. Transforming an overweight woman of 45 years of age into a nubile young nymph. Her grunts became screams of ecstasy.

DAY THREE

Again, the long, tortuous journey to the platform, to the train. Pacing myself. I had thought of nothing but her. Imagining her name, her occupation - she was student, I was sure, no doubt philosophy or literature - her nationality. All manner of fantasy in play in my head.

There. Again. My god. In her corner, cornered like a savannah cat. Her eyes met mine as I was still on the platform facing the closed doors. Moving towards her was like an angry waltz, through the crowd, pushing and shoving and there I was, in front of her. Her back to the corner this time. The reflection of the glass yesterday created a dream-like barrier, but today, she faced off with me. I confronted her, trying to appear confident but I was shaken to the core. The masses pressed against my back, forcing me against her. I was hard again. I was hard on the platform when she first met my eye.