I Let a Stranger Touch Me on the Subway

That morning I left home wearing clothes I wouldn’t have chosen for myself. My boss insisted: I had an early meeting with one of those clients who sign big contracts and expect a certain kind of attention, and he knew exactly which dress he wanted to see me in. Turquoise Lycra, clinging to my body, so short it barely covered me. Platform sneakers in the same shade. Underneath, a set of fuchsia lingerie with black lace that made me feel more exposed than dressed.

The plan was simple: leave the van at the shop — it had had a broken headlight for weeks — and get to the other side of the city in my own car. But at the shop they told me it would take four hours, and I couldn’t wait. I took my wallet, counted the cash, and realized I was carrying barely any bills. I had planned to pay for everything by card. Fool that I was, I’d forgotten the rest of the day depended on coins.

So I ended up where I never wanted to end up dressed like that: on public transportation, calculating transfers to stretch the little I had.

The first bus passed without incident. The problem started when I got off near the station. Behind me was a man in a long-sleeved white shirt. I didn’t pay him any mind until I noticed he was repeating every one of my movements: the same line at the ticket booth, the same turnstiles, the same platform. I wanted to head for the women-only cars, but the train arrived before I could and I got in through the closest door. He rushed and got on through the one before it.

You’re exaggerating, I told myself. Not everyone is following you.

It wasn’t packed, but there weren’t any seats left either. I made my way to the center of the aisle knowing that at the next station, where several lines meet, the car would fill up beyond reason. And that’s exactly what happened. People boarded in waves until I no longer had room to move. Just before we started up again, I felt someone settle in behind me, pushing the people beside me aside. I kept my eyes glued to my phone.

Then it started.

A hand swung close to my hips. With the sway of the train, it was easy to mistake it for an accidental brush, so I adjusted the strap of my bag, pressed it against my side, and kept fiddling with my phone. But the fingers came back, this time catching on the hem of my dress. At one station some people got off and the owner of that hand took the chance to move to my right.

As soon as the doors closed, the palm slid open over me, with no attempt to hide it at all. I flinched. When I turned my head, I froze: it was the man in the white shirt, the one who’d been following me from the street. His face was perfectly calm, as if his hand belonged to someone else.

—Hey, enough —I said, in a low but firm voice.

He didn’t react. On the contrary: he pulled the hem up until I was half exposed and started kneading me brazenly. What I felt wasn’t pleasure, it was rage. I slapped his hand away and, in response, he dropped his palm to my thigh and rubbed up and down. I grabbed the pole, tried to pull my dress down with my free hand, and he kept tugging the other way, stubbornly, slipping his fingers where I didn’t want them. We struggled in silence, absurdly, as if no one around us could tell.

—Leave the lady alone already —a voice said suddenly.

A man had pushed his way through the crowd and was jostling the harasser with his shoulder.

—And who the hell are you? —the other spat.

—Leave her alone. I’m defending her. What’s your problem with her?

While they argued, I straightened my dress, gathered my strength, and gave the harasser a slap that echoed through the whole car. People turned to look. The guy stood there, rubbing his cheek like an idiot, and I, with the same hand that was burning, took my defender’s hand and pulled him toward the doors.

—Are you all right? —he asked.

—Yes. Thank you very much —I said, and I didn’t let go of his hand.

—What stop are you getting off at?

—Market.

—Me too. If you want, I’ll stay with you until then.

—Please —I squeezed his fingers a little tighter.

***

We rode for two stops holding hands, not talking much. When we got off the train, I could see him properly: a man a little older than me, dark hair streaked with gray, glasses, broad back, a smile that seemed to apologize for existing. His name was Damián, he was around fifty, worked as an accountant, and had a family. He offered to walk me to the transfer, and along the way we chatted as if we’d known each other before.

On the stairs we let go. I thanked him again and kissed him on the cheek. We made sure the other wasn’t following us.

—Are you heading north too? —I asked, already on the next platform.

—Yes, though I get off one stop before —he said with a shy laugh.

I held out my hand and he took it again. We went down the stairs like any ordinary couple. Something had been lit in me between the scare, the adrenaline, and his old-fashioned courtesy. I didn’t think about it too much. We walked to the far end of the platform, where there were barely any people, and before the train arrived I stood in front of him and slipped my arm over him so he could hold me. I pressed myself against his body, pushed my hips back as if without meaning to, and felt how, little by little, he reacted against my back.

—Damn —he muttered, almost out of breath.

—Like this? —I whispered, moving my hips only slightly against his bulge.

—Don’t tempt me, woman.

—Then don’t look at me like that.

The train arrived. We got on and stayed by the door, the one that wouldn’t open again until the end of the ride, right where I was getting off. People came in from the other side in numbers until we were almost crushed. As soon as it started moving, I rocked my hips slowly from side to side. I felt him grow, already hard, pushing against me with an urgency that drew a smile from me.

I turned halfway around to face him and discovered that, with all the rubbing, my dress had ridden up to my waist.

—Can you help me pull my dress down? —I murmured.

Damián looked down and swallowed.

—Girl, everything’s showing —he said, voice breaking.

—I know. That’s why I’m asking you to help me.

He took the hem in his hand and tugged, but the Lycra kept twisting and riding back up every time. He tried two, three times, and with each attempt his fingers brushed me unhurriedly. I saw his jaw tighten, his breathing grow heavier. I gently moved his wrist aside and lifted the dress myself a little more, letting him see the black lace damp against my mound, the obvious mark of what he was making me feel.

—Want to see better? —I said, very softly.

He lifted his gaze, dark eyes blazing.

—Don’t do this to me if you’re not going to let me keep going.

—Then keep going.

His fingers slipped under the fabric with agonizing slowness. First the fingertip, then the tip of his index finger, sliding along the edge of my panties until he found me soaked through. When he felt the heat, he let out a rough sound, almost a curse, and sank two fingers in at once, slowly, opening me from the entrance while he held my waist with his other hand so I wouldn’t lurch forward with the train’s sway.

—Fuck, you’re wet —he said, surprised and hungry at once.

—Because I like the way you touch me.

With his fingers inside, he began to move his hand with precision, searching for the exact spot and drawing small tremors from me that I had to swallow by pressing my lips together. My legs were bent, wedged between his body and the door, and with each lurch of the car his hand went deeper, more insistent. Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was open-mouthed, rough, urgent, his tongue pushing into mine as if he wanted to steal my breath. I took the back of his neck and pulled him closer, feeling Damián’s whole body against mine, the bulge against my thigh, his fingers still sunk into my sex. His free palm climbed up my back, slid down to my ass, and squeezed hard, claiming me right there.

—If you keep this up, I’m going to come right here —I whispered, pressed against his mouth.

—Then come —he replied, with a crooked smile—. I’m not stopping.

By then I had forgotten where I was.

***

I felt the urge to give him something back. I let my bag drop and slid down until I was crouching, wedged between other people’s legs. I pulled down his zipper, reached in, and with some effort, freed him. He wasn’t huge, but it still made my mouth water. I took him in my hand and gave him two slow licks from the base, glancing sideways as his face changed. His cock was hard, warm, throbbing, and when I ran my tongue over the head I tasted the salty pre-cum.

—Like that, fuck... —he gasped, bracing himself harder against the door.

I took him into my mouth as far as I could. My lips closed around the tip, my tongue circled the head, and then I went a little farther, letting him sink into the heat of my throat in short jolts, because the train and the crowd allowed nothing elegant. I sucked with gusto, slowly at first and then faster, the humid air, the sound of both our breathing mixing with the clatter of the rails. Damián held my hair back with one hand, careful not to draw too much attention, but his fingers trembled with pure desire.

There I was: crouched in a car packed to the brim, swallowing the cock of a stranger who half an hour earlier had been nothing more than a voice defending me.

I pulled him out of my mouth with a wet pop and stood, turning so my back was to him. I moved the dress aside and then the lace, just enough to present myself open against him, leaning forward slightly. He couldn’t get in properly from the front in the crush, so I positioned myself as best I could, pushing my ass back and finding the angle with small hip movements. Damián grabbed my waist, spread my legs wider with his knee, and ran the tip of his cock over my entrance once, twice, until finally it slid inside.

The first thrust tore out a moan so clear I bit my wrist to keep from screaming. The second went deeper, and the third had me arched against him, hands braced on the cold door while he fucked me from behind in a slow but steady motion, barely controlling himself because there wasn’t room. The friction of the fabric, the hard smack of his hips, the wet heat between my legs: it all blended together until I became one single thing.

—More —I begged, my face turned toward the fogged-up glass—. Harder.

—They’ll hear you.

—Let them hear.

Then he loosened up a little. His hand gripped my hair, not pulling, just setting the rhythm, while the other drove my hips back against him. With every thrust I let out a dirty little breath, an involuntary movement of my ass to meet him better. The train braked at a station and several people looked at us out of the corner of their eyes. A woman looked away at once; a man cleared his throat. I didn’t care. I was hot, soaked, open, and trembling around his cock, and he knew it.

—Look at me —Damián said, swallowing.

I turned my head just enough. His glasses were crooked, his forehead beaded with sweat, and he wore an expression halfway between guilt and hunger that made me smile.

—Do you do this for your clients too, accountant? —I shot back, breathing hard.

He let out a broken laugh and gave my ass a sharp smack.

—I’m not charging you anything.

I pushed my ass toward him, driving him deeper into me. The tip of his cock hit that exact place that stole my breath. I could no longer hold myself upright. I spilled against the door, one hand sliding over the glass to steady myself and the other between my legs, rubbing over the lace while he kept going in and out, faster now, clumsier with need.

One of my straps slipped down completely and dragged my bra with it. Damián reached around from the front, grabbed a breast, and pinched my nipple between his fingers until I let out a small cry. I came with a short spasm, clenching his cock from the inside, and he answered with a deep groan, clutching my hips as if there were no one else left in the car.

—That’s it —he said, almost voiceless—. Like that, like that...

It didn’t take much longer. I felt his breathing break apart, the rhythm lost in a couple of rougher thrusts, and then the heat of his release flooding me inside with one final jolt. He stayed pressed to my back for a long second, trembling, while I kept pressing myself against him so he wouldn’t pull away too suddenly. His cum ran down in a thick, hot line, mixing with my own sweat and leaving my skin even more sensitive.

—Sorry, I don’t have anything to clean you up with —he murmured, still breathless.

—Don’t worry —I said, adjusting my clothes as best I could.

The fabric down below was soaked, and I knew it would be obvious for the rest of the day. I didn’t care.

The train was braking at my stop. Damián hurriedly pulled up his pants, gave me a look full of guilt and amazement, and got off almost at a run. When the doors closed, he turned around to see if I’d gotten off too. I hadn’t. I smiled at him and waved goodbye with my fingers.

When I reached my stop, a man asked me in passing if I wanted him to walk me somewhere. I laughed and kept going, my wet dress clinging to my skin every time the air moved, imagining what the people who crossed paths with me were thinking. I was late for the appointment, of course. But something told me that day, for once, had been mine and no one else’s.