The Girl On The C Train

The Girl on the C Train

Another of my semi-autobiographical fictions. No names in this one, so no need to protect the innocent (or guilty).

"The next train to....Cleveland Circle...is now arriving."

I lived alone in the early '90's, worked late, often taking the last Green Line train. Grew up outside NYC, it was Brookline, what was there to worry about - I'd nap.

I first noticed her in winter. She got on at Park Street, bundled up with bleached, spikey blonde hair. She looked around, carefully chose a seat behind the accordion, conductor's side. Seemed odd to so carefully choose a seat on an empty train, but what did I know. Maybe it was good luck thing.

I tried not to sleep before Kenmore, then let myself doze, occasionally opening my eyes so I didn't miss my stop. Something was odd- her eyes were closed as well, but she was fidgeting under her coat. She wasn't wearing headphones - they were big and hard to miss then - so she wasn't listening to music.

She saw me looking at her, froze, looked away. I didn't think much of it, dozed off again. At Coolidge Corner, her eyes were closed again, but still active under a closed puffer coat. And she was sweating, her face flushed. The train's heat was working, for once, so I wondered why she didn't just unzip. Whatever. I got off at Washington Street, nodded politely.

I'm slow, so it was only on my cold walk home that I realized the seat behind the accordion was out of the conductor's view. Interesting - what didn't she want them to see? A wild idea occurred to me but, nah, couldn't be - just my active, twenty-something imagination.

Next night, same train, same girl. We took our preferred seats, this time she gave me a bit of a nod, a grin. Didn't think much of it, nodded back. But same thing again - when I'd open my eyes, she'd look away, stop fidgeting.

Oh my god -was she actually jerking off? I got hard instantly, was fully awake.

The next week, same train, same thing. Except I didn't fall asleep - and she didn't stop when she saw me looking at her. I watched her watching me watching her. When she closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the cold window, shuddered a little, I almost lost it. When I got off the train, I nodded, said "Good night." She nodded, smiled back.

I didn't see her on Tuesday, was out of town on Wednesday. But Thursday night we were again waiting for the same train. It was a bit warmer, so her coat was open showing tights, short skirt, flannel shirt, a loose tee shirt. Grunged out - just my type.

I waited to see what she'd do. She sat in her spot, this time making sure I was paying attention. With her coat unzipped, I could see a hand between her legs. An old woman got on at Arlington - my new friend stopped, shrugged, smiled. When we were alone again after Kenmore, she slowly, quietly, almost unnoticeably, started again, looking me right in the eyes. By St. Mary's, her right hand was all the way up under her skirt. By Kent, she'd closed her eyes, her cheek against the cold window. At Coolidge Corner, she held her breath, froze, convulsed ever so slightly.

Clearly, we both were enjoying ourselves.

She had a serious look on her face, when I got up to get off. I smiled, said "see you soon", exited. She nodded.

I eventually figured out she worked late on Wednesdays and Thursdays. I made sure to do the same, always happy when she was at Park Street. On cold nights her jacket stayed zipped, but as it got warmer, she'd leave it open, wear less underneath.

On a warm, early spring night I finally got up the nerve to sit across from her, not sure how she'd react. She smiled, almost as if to say 'bout time'. She was wearing a long, loose coat, tights, a red flannel shirt tied around her waist. Sitting closer, I could see more as we rode. Subtle movements of her face, little beads of sweat, neck veins popping, wet stains between her legs.

That night when I stood to get off the train, she held out her hand. Without breaking eye contact, leaned down, kissed it, smelled her sweet perfume. Holy shit!

I sat closer, she got bolder. By late April, she'd stopped wearing tights, showing skin, panties, fingers rubbing, sometimes dipping in, out. She clearly enjoyed the risk of discovery and other people on the train no longer stopped her - she'd just be more subtle. Alone, she'd really go for it - legs open, panties pushed to the side. If she came more than once, she'd leave a noticeable wet spot on the seat. If I was lucky, she'd let me suck on wet fingers before my stop.

This kept up for a few weeks, her clothing choices getting skimpier, actions bolder, legs further apart. One night she laid down on the bench, one leg up, the other dangling. Other times she'd show up commando, flash me when I came down the steps at Park Street.

She went commando more often as spring turned to summer, wearing looser shirts that hung off her shoulders, exposing small, pert breasts, long nipples that got harder the more she touched herself. She carried a leather jacket but never wore it, sitting on it as she got off. Man, I wanted that coat.

A hot spell in late May saw her wearing combat boots, a short skirt, plaid shirt tied around her waist, and a loose, sleeveless undershirt. She was stunning.

Not taking her usual place, she sashayed back toward my original seat, slid in, patted the empty seat next to her. Who was I to refuse? She took my hand, placed it between her legs, smiled. I ran my middle finger up, down, wetness showing through cotton panties. I caressed the soft skin between her thighs, spread lips with two fingers, not caring if other passengers noticed.

By Kenmore, her panties were pushed to the side, my fingers sliding in and out, her head on my shoulder. The smell of her skin, hair was almost too much for me. I really had to control myself not to just cum my jeans. By Saint Mary's, she was breathing hard, my index finger curled up, to find her g-spot. By Coolidge, I had three fingers moving, in, out as fast as I could manage from that angle, her convulsing around them. That night, as I stood to get off, we locked eyes, smiled, as I sucked my own fingers.

The next few weeks were variations, depending on how she felt. Some nights she wanted me to watch, others assistance.

The first Wednesday of June, she wasn't at the station. I was disappointed but didn't think much of it as the trains were delayed, again. Thinking about a sad train ride home, I was surprised when I was pulled down the platform. Laughing, hair swinging, she dragging me past the "do not enter" gate, pinned me against the wall in the darkness of the tunnel.

She leaned her head to one side, an invitation to lick, nibble a sweaty neck. She pushed into my bulge as I groped her bare bottom. She laughed when the boarding announcement came on, smiling innocently as she casually walked through the gate. Without straightening herself out, showing off the messy state of her outfit, she walked to the back of the train, motioned for me to slide in first.

Once the empty train started moving, she reached down, pulled me out. I was surprised and so fucking hard it hurt. She casually slid on a condom, stood up, straddled and, in one stroke, pushed herself onto me. Wet, tight, ready, she was in control, holding onto the seat in front of us, moving slowly, then fast, forward, back, grinding, the sound of her sliding up and down only drowned out by the moving train.

I could see her reflection in the dark window, smiling. It was an incredible sight - the side of a breast, a hard nipple occasionally popping into view. Unable to resist, I reached up, under with both hands, squeezing and rubbing in rhythm with the train's movement.

God only know what we looked like to strangers on the street. Maybe it just looked like a girl sitting on a boy's lap - maybe more. All I know is that the longer she rode, the hotter it became. I could feel her soaking my jeans, her back, hair, neck wet with sweet, intoxicating.

As we approached Washington Street, she looked at me, eyebrows raised. I answered by wrapping my arms around her, pulling down hard, lifting up, down hard again. For the first time, I heard the sound of her voice, a grunt, a laugh, an "oh, god, fuck...."

Toward the end of the line, the recorded "Cleveland Circle is the last stop for this train which is going out of service. Please collect all your belongings and exit the train" came on. There were only moments left. Without a word, we both started moving faster, harder, reaching. I felt her back arch, muscles tighten around me, pushing me over the edge as well.

She slumped over the seat in front of us just as we pulled into Cleveland Circle. She stood, smiled, grabbed her stuff, walked out the door. I pulled myself together, ran to catch up. By the time I got outside, she was walking up the hill, swinging her hips, happy.

Something inside me knew not to follow. I said, "Good night."

She didn't stop, turned her head, looked at me with a big smile, waved. "Thanks."

She kept walking up the hill, into the night. I don't know if she was a student who moved, if she changed jobs, or if she was just done with me. All I know is, no matter how many nights I worked late after that, I never saw her again.