You are not surprised that the car is empty on this, the last subway train of the night. You are used to travelling home alone this late at night.
You have been out on your usual Friday night prowl, hitting the bars. There were lots of guys out tonight and you only had to pay for your first drink. After that there were no shortage of men (and a few women) who were only too happy to oblige the little blonde in the red dress. Too bad that none of them seemed good enough to take you home. You have learned from experience that only the best are capable of giving you what you want. As highly sexed as you are, you know that you can have a better time by yourself (with a few toys) than you can with any of the fumbling young boys who are so eager to get you drunk and into the back seat of their daddy's Caddy. You have no time for amateurs. You took the drinks, but car sex is for kids. You are twenty now, a woman, and you gave up screwing in Chevys and Dodges when you got your own place three years ago. The drinks were fine, though, and they kept coming. It would have been rude to turn them down and although you can hold your liquor like a stevedore, you have had more than a few and you know it.
You don't mind that you are alone on the subway car. The past four or five hours have been spent artfully deflecting the attention of over-eager young men through the haze of increasing inebriation and the clamour of honky-tonk bars. It feels good to sit alone in the relative quiet of the subway and relax your mind and body. But your solitude does not endure for long. The train stops, the doors slide open and a man gets on. The doors close and the train moves off again.
The man does not look around, but walks directly to the seat opposite yours. You are facing the front of the car, he the back. His knees almost touch yours. Shit. Out of fifty or a hundred seats on the car, he has chosen to invade your space. He sits down and looks at you. This is no surprise; men have been looking at you all night.
You have dressed so that they will be compelled to look at you. You are wearing a very simple dress of your own design. It is simply a tube of stretchy material that is just as easy to step out of as it is to step in to. Folded double above your breasts, it is strapless; all that holds it up is the snugness of its fit as it embraces your body. It hugs every curve and shows off the firmness of your ass and the flatness and definition of your belly. And your tits, of course. It is good that your tits are large and firm. If they were not, you would have to keep tugging the dress up, and you would hate to look like you were playing some kind of dopey teenage flirtation game.
The dress is short enough to show off your smooth, firm legs. Short enough to make those legs appear longer. Short enough that you have to be careful how you sit. Short enough to attract all the attention you need. But not so short as to reveal the tattoo on your ass, the tattoo of a broken heart. On your feet are black high-heeled pumps. They exaggerate the muscles of your legs and ass. They contribute not only to the illusion of longer legs, but give you four extra inches of height, which you know you can use. You call these shoes Joan-Crawford-Fuck-Me-Pumps. (Does everybody?) Your black leather biker jacket shows anyone that might be fooled by your baby-face that you are a woman who can handle herself.
Too bad the damned thing is so big. You wear it over your shoulders to make its size less obvious. You have night-time makeup on. A bit too much, maybe, but it helps to make you look less like a kid. Besides, the bars you go to are dark. The bright shiny red of your lips is exactly duplicated on your fingernails. You look good, really good, and you know it. Your scent is a musk, originally intended for men. You wear it because three years ago your first landlord, the first man you ever slept with more than once, simply said; "It smells like sex". You know that your look is exactly what you want it to be. You are small and very feminine but you are as tough as you need to be. And then some.
So let this asshole look if he wants to. At first you ignore him. Maybe he will bugger off and leave you alone. But after a while, you can no longer look out the window at the blackness of the subway tunnel rushing past. You look at the man. Maybe you can stare him down.
He is wearing brown boots, kind of like cowboy boots but with square toes and lower heels. Motorcycle boots maybe. Well worn jeans. The kind with brass buttons instead of a zipper at the fly. Tight, too, and you cannot help notice the nice big bulge in the crotch. A black leather motorcycle jacket. Like you own, but his fits him properly. A plain white T-shirt underneath, tight across his chest. He is clean-shaven with blond hair. His face seems to be formed of all straight lines; no curves. He wouldn't be bad looking except for his eyes. His eyes have almost no colour at all. They are the colour of snow high up in the mountains and in shadow. Snow that is white, of course, but that seems to be blue. His eyes seem to have no colour, but of course they must be blue. But a clear, crystal blue. If he had bought you a drink or two at around midnight, and it hadn't been for those eyes, then who knows what might have happened. But those eyes are too much. They are not frightening, but only because you do not let yourself get frightened by that sort of crap. Between the hair and the eyes, he looks Scandinavian or something. Aryan maybe.
After you have been staring back at him for a while, you realise that he is not looking at your body, just at your face. There is a first time for everything. Most guys spend most of their time looking at your tits, legs or ass, depending on their personal preference. But not this guy. He just stares dispassionately at your face. And he doesn't blink. He seems like some kind of machine.
