Subway 8

It's almost too easy.

Jonathan knows-- most girls don't dress like she does, almost like they're setting themselves up to be on To Catch A Predator-- and even if they do, most girls aren't nearly as attractive as her.

The knee-high socks.

The almost-impossibly-short plaid skirts that would need to have her bending over just barely for him to see all the way from here to Paris.

The ride on the F train never lasts nearly long enough.

She gets on before he does at Prospect-- perhaps at Church or Fort Hamilton, he's always wondered-- and he couldn't be more grateful, leaving him to intentionally position himself right behind her as the crowd seems to engulf the train, pushing them inexorably close together.

The way she dresses almost makes him wonder if she isn't actually younger than she seems at first-- at least until he catches a glimpse of her student ID attached securely to her bag via a small, see-through card sleeve.

Not that it matters if she's legal, Jonathan biting back a small smile as the subway train jostles to a stop at Smith, leaving him accidentally stumbling into the small girl in front of him with a stilted sorry.

&

Accidents happen. Rachel knows that.

No one can blame anyone for being jostled-- not on the morning subway, not with enough people crammed into a tiny space to make anyone feel claustrophobic.

So when she feels a hand firmly grabbing hold of her ass through her skirt as she's wedged firmly between the pole she was holding onto and the distinctly male body behind her, she doesn't think twice about it, deciding to write it off as just another accident.

After all, she can't blame him for needing something to grab onto in the morning scuffle on the subway.

"Sorry," he mutters against the shell of her ear, Rachel unable to help the shiver that runs down her spine. A few seconds later, everyone is back up on their feet, more people entering into the crowded train car, grabbing hold of the bars here and there, the man behind her pushed just a little closer.

When the back of his hand brushes up against her ass, through her skirt, Rachel doesn't think twice of it.

Hasn't for a good two weeks now.

Not even when his knuckles slip under her skirt and glide softly over the barely-exposed swell of her ass.

The train jostles them again as it comes to a stop at Carroll, Rachel stiffening only slightly as his hand grabs hold of her ass again, fingers digging into the soft skin under her skirt as his thumb presses into the fabric.

"Sorry," he whispers again, Rachel swallowing hard.

The problem with being on the F train in the midst of the rush of the morning commute, is just how packed it gets. If Rachel were to make a commotion now, no one would look at her twice.

Not only would she be holding up the busy lives of every harried New Yorker with better things to do than to see to the well-being of one girl, she'd be being unreasonable.

The chance of that kind of thing being an accident is far too great-- and besides.

She doesn't even know what he looks like.

The sudden realization strikes her with another shiver as her eyes go wide, Rachel whipping around only to find suited backs facing her, not a single suspicious person in sight.

Turning around again, she decides to forget about it-- at least until the stop at Bergen, the same body-- presumably-- pressed against her once more as more people get on the train.

In a strange way, a part of her wonders if she doesn't actually like this, Rachel squeezing her thighs together as she considers the idea of someone getting off on her-- her clothes, her ass, the feeling of her pressed up against them.

As the train car becomes crowded enough to-- seemingly-- keep anyone else from getting in, Rachel knows she's trapped, the same body still up against her, wedging her tightly between the center pole and her stranger, wondering if she's feeling an erection pressing into the small of her back-- but the thought is cut off prematurely as she feels a slow hand moving against her-- first, cupping her ass-- then, slipping lower as a finger works its way between her legs to feel at her damp panties, pressing hard against her slit.

Her eyes go wide almost instantly, every word in her vocabulary seemingly trapped in her throat as she stares ahead of her in utter disbelief.

She can't believe this is making her wet-- wetter, even, than she was before.

The idle hand seems to still there for a moment, his one finger playing, stroking slowly back and forth as though gathering wetness with a sudden whimper from her.

Cursing herself almost instantly for the misstep, her whole body freezes as he pushes aside her panties, barely even having to move his fingers to press against her now-bare sex.

It's at York that she feels his fingers skidding up to flick against her clit, the movements of another wave of people pressing onto the train leaving him plenty of leeway to get away with it, Rachel's knees getting weak as a small squeak leaves her.

Not a breath, not a groan or a moan from the man behind her, and for a second, she can't help but wonder how he's not responding to this somehow.

That is, until the train starts moving again, and she feels him conveniently using the motion as an excuse to push not one, but two fingers inside of her virginal folds in one swift motion, her eyes going wide as her pussy clenches around him.

As the train surfaces and moves over the water, Rachel can hardly concentrate on her surroundings, the tall buildings of Manhattan coming into sight, the way the city seems to light up with motion from the new day. Not as he's finger-fucking her, slowly, languorously, as though intending this to stay with her for the rest of her day, the way he's somehow managed to turn this-- what she can't help but think of as rape-- into his fingers inexorably making love to her dripping cunt as he pushes inside of her again and again, and getting away with it, too.

She could have gotten off, she reminds herself-- at York. Waited just a few minutes for the next train to take her into the city if she'd truly felt uncomfortable.

But she didn't.

Instead she's here, getting finger-fucked by a perfect stranger, her knees buckling in orgasm just as his fingers still inside of her as the train slides to a stop at East Broadway, his hand coming out to curl possessively around her upper arm, her whole body trembling.

A part of her wonders if he's trying to steady her, swallowing thickly with the idea of how it's almost thoughtful.

She shouldn't be thinking these things about a man who just raped her in the middle of a subway train, but she can't help it.

Her eyes close as the scent of her arousal mixes with his own, lightly-applied cologne that hardly overpowers, but that she knows she'll be smelling behind her all day long, leaving her to turn around to find no one there.

Almost as if nothing happened, he pulls his fingers free slowly as they stop at Delancey, quickly straightening out her panties over her sex once more as people start to get off the train, making it harder to conceal his actions.

The rest of the ride passes quietly-- aside from the way his hand stays grazing just barely against the swell of her ass, almost possessively as though to remind her who just left her knees shaking and trembling in his wake.

She gets off before him-- at Bryant Park-- but even she can't stop herself from braving it as she steps off the train and onto the subway platform, promptly turning around amidst all the others exiting the train.

The suited man leaning against the pole drawing two fingers into his mouth to suck clean as he locks his gaze with hers is more attractive than anyone she's ever met, Rachel's pulse suddenly racing as she quickly turns around again-- along with a firm mental note to do something, anything, next time to return the affections.

Maybe a bit of grinding her ass back into his crotch, she tells herself as she starts up the stairs and back up to the hustle and bustle of the city.

Starting tomorrow.