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Subject: {ASSM} Subway series #2: Thanks for the Memories
Date: Tue,  4 Dec 2001 11:10:02 -0500
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2001, theGreatxIam

Subway series #2:
Thanks for the Memories - MF
By theGreatxIam

You've just stood for five minutes in a cafeteria line to get today's
version of an allegedly healthy meal -- wilted brown lettuce and tuna
that came from a fish tossed onto the boat by its picky peers because
it lacked taste. That and a lukewarm cola from the don't-call-it-Coke
machine are going to set you back $4.50, if the unsmiling
mouthbreather at the cash register ever finishes her interrogation.
That all? For here or to go? Cash, charge or on account? On account of
you're driving me crazy, you want to say, but you just tell her
"cash," since the $10 bill in your hand apparently isn't enough of a
clue. She plucks it away, slides it into a cubby in the cash drawer,
and counts out your change, just like they taught her: four-fifty,
five, ten, twenty.

What do you do?

Come on, quickly! The guy behind you in line is already shoving his
tray full of carbohydrates forward.

Do you rush away from the cashier quick as you can, trying to decide
whether to spend your extra $10 on the Lotto or a few beers tonight?

Do you sidle away cautiously, trying desperately not to attract
attention, rehearsing the pose of astonished innocence you'll adopt if
the cashier catches her error and calls you back?

Or do you hold up the line while you try to give back the extra cash,
even if it means explaining it twice, slowly, in little words, before
the cashier understands and accepts the money with no thanks and
perhaps even a hint of suspicion in her glance?

That last one is me, every time. I can't help it; I was raised that

Being honest and polite in today's society sometimes feels like the
whole world's a set of biker's leathers and you're a pair of oxblood
wingtips. Refuse to join your fellow students in cheating on a test
and you become a social outcast. Try to hold open a door for someone,
man, woman, or child, and you get tangled in a jerky waltz of feints
and sidesteps; they're waiting for you to swoop in front of them.
Allow a pregnant woman juggling a gallon of milk, a box of Frosted
Flakes, two apples and a peach to cut in front of you and the woman
behind you interrupts her cellphone conversation long enough to drive
her full-to-the-brim cart into your ankle in spite.

Bottom line? It doesn't pay to be polite today. But that's not the
point, is it? You're not supposed to be polite so you can earn a
reward, at least not in this world. You're courteous because it's the
right thing to do; you're polite because that's how you'd want other
people to treat you; you're honest because to lie is a sin. You don't
get anything in return.

Well, usually you don't.

That's how last Wednesday started out.

I was slow to get out of bed because I'd been up late the night before
instant-messaging and e-mailing my nephew Pete, who had a term paper
due on the Napoleonic Wars. As the only one of my family -- two
brothers, two sisters -- who's childless and single, I'm the one who
gets called on for all late-night emergencies. I'm not quite sure if
that's simply because my siblings figure I have no social life or some
subtle form of revenge because I do. In this case, I couldn't complain
much about the logic. I was a history major for two years before I
switched to business when I decided I had gotten too attached to
eating regularly. My brother is the mechanical one, and my
sister-in-law -- well, suffice it to say that with her education, the
sum total of her knowledge of the Napoleonic Wars comes from being
able to sing the chorus of Abba's "Waterloo" verbatim.

So I was the lucky pup who got to stay up all night electronically
coaching Pete through his paper. He kept asking if I couldn't just
tell him what to write. Instead, I directed him to several good Web
sites, told him to send me an outline, rough drafts, the whole "give a
man a fish-teach him to fish" routine.

Sometime around 2 a.m. Pete informed me he was finished -- a surprise,
because I hadn't even seen a full first draft. That's when he told me
he'd also been IM'ing some of his classmates and they'd sent him to a
term paper site where he'd bought a B+ paper with his mom's credit
card. He signed off without even a thank-you. Like I said, you don't
get anything in return.

I'd finally gotten to sleep sometime around 3, so when my alarm clock
clanged at 6 I just punched it off and rolled over -- for a few more
minutes, I told myself.

It was 6:45 before I peeled my eyes open again. So much for having a
leisurely breakfast, which is how I like to start my day. So much for
having any breakfast, in fact. I raced through my morning ablutions
and was almost back on schedule when I heard the first crack of
thunder. I spent 15 minutes searching for my umbrella before I
remembered that I'd loaned it to my cubicle neighbor for his lunchtime
dash to the coffee shop three days ago and he never gave it back.
Never gave me the change from my double tall latte either, it occurred
to me.

Oh, well. At least I'd have the morning paper outside my apartment
door. I prefer to read it on the train, so I always leave it outside
until I leave. Today it could be an impromptu bumbershoot.

But ... no paper. Not the first time that had happened. I suspected
the woman two floors up whom I'd caught a couple of times peeking out
of the elevator when it had mysteriously stopped on my floor before I
could get to press the button. Our floor was an obvious target for
paper snatchers because there were four of us who all got home
delivery. In fact, I noticed, 6-C hadn't retrieved his paper yet.

I admit I hesitated, but only for a second. It just wouldn't be right.

I was already running late, so I couldn't wait for the storm to pass.
I was resigned to getting soaked. But by the time I got to the lobby,
it looked as if it were letting up a little. The doorman offered a
cab, but I gestured to pass it on to a woman who I'd passed in the
lobby wrestling with an umbrella. The doorman had barely gotten the
cab door open when the woman shot past me, throwing her umbrella and a
paper into the car and jumping in after them. As the cab drove away,
splashing my slacks, I got a look at her face.

It was the paper snatcher.

Ah, well. It wasn't raining that hard. And I only had six blocks to
the subway station. I started to hoof it.

Halfway there, it began to pour. I quickly had water streaming down my
face. Ducking under the narrow overhang of a newsstand, I bought a
paper. I only had a $5 bill. The guy gave me change, mostly in
pennies. As I raised the paper over me and stepped away, I noticed
he'd given me 3 cents too many. Two other guys were lined up to buy
papers so I stepped around them to hand back the pennies. As I did, I
felt something cold on my foot and looked down. The puddle was at
least four inches deep.

I squished and squooshed the rest of the way. By now I was so far
behind my schedule that I'd run smack into rush hour. I had to wait
for three trains before I could even squeeze onto one, what with
people pushing past me.

Let me make this clear: I get up so early -- normally -- because I am
not a sardine and I don't like being treated like one. My usual subway
ride is a calm, if jolting, trundle. I can always get a seat --
indeed, I usually have enough room to spread out my paper without
disturbing anyone next to me.

Not so on this morning. The subway car was jammed full of damp
humanity. I could barely move, but with some effort and many apologies
I began to ease away from the doors and toward the center of the car
like the signs tell you to do.

And then it appeared. An empty seat, right in front of me. I swear an
angelic choir sent forth a hosanna. I was wet from head to toe --
well, at least my right foot's toes -- I had no newspaper and I was
going to be late for work. But at least I had a seat.

I dove down into it. Bliss on a metal frame was that cracked orange
Naugahyde. I closed my eyes for a moment to savor the feeling.

When I opened them, there, right in front of me, was a little old

Dried-apple face. Babushka. Mesh shopping bag. Black socks and
sandals. The whole nine yards.

My backside tried to burrow down into the seat but my soul pulled me
to my feet.

At the same moment, a woman across the aisle also got up. We bumped
elbows as we both gestured the old woman to our respective seats. She
looked us both over as if we were escaped lunatics. I guess I looked
the part more, bedraggled as I was. The other woman had evidently had
benefit of an umbrella for her trip to the train. Her blonde hair,
which fell straight back halfway down her pin-striped blue jacket, was
shiny and dry. No drops of water on the tip of her aquiline nose or
the tops of her rosy cheeks, nothing to distract your attention from
her startlingly blue eyes.

Whether it was appearances or the fact that my abandoned spot now had
a puddle in the seat, the old woman picked the other offering.

As we shuffled around, I then offered my seat to the polite young --
30ish, I'd say -- woman. She declined. I insisted. She demurred. We
could have gone on with this Alphonse and Gaston act for quite awhile,
but she pointed out it had become moot. Some crewcut in a Raiders
T-shirt had slid behind and taken my seat.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's my fault."

"No, no, not at all, miss."

"Call me Diane."

"No, Diane, it wasn't your fault. If anyone's to blame it's ..." I
indicated with a sideways glance the Raiders fan.

Diane smiled. "Some people can be so rude, can't they? It's a joy to
find someone else who'd actually give up his seat ... I'm sorry, I
didn't get your name."

I told her. We chatted a bit until the noise level made intelligent
conversation impossible. By then we'd been buffetted by the jostling
crowd. I had backed up against a pole at the side of one bench seat in
an attempt to give Diane a little breathing room, but the car got even
more jammed and she was forced right up against me. We both started to
apologize. Then we both indicated the other should go first. But that
part was communicated only by eyes, for a further stuffing of our
already over-full car had pressed her flat against me.

Well, flat isn't the right word, for their wasn't a flat spot on
Diane. She was all curves, and lush ones at that, as I was now finding
out in the flesh.

Her breasts -- as large as any in Playboy, I could see by a discreet
peek down her bright yellow silk blouse (and here I hasten to add that
I've only seen those breasts on the cover, of course) -- her breasts
were squashed into me. By the feel of it -- of them -- they were even
erect. Or so I surmised by the fact that it seemed as if two pencil
erasers were being pressed into my chest.

Her stomach curved away and lost contact with me, but from her, um,
pelvis down she was in very definite contact. So much so, in fact,
that I feared she couldn't help but notice that my body had --
entirely without my brain's permission, I assure you -- responded to
her. At length, if you get my drift.

Alas, drift is just what I did, sliding back and forth across Diane's
front as the train jolted into movement. Her eyebrows rose; there was
no doubt she had noticed my embarrassing state. Not that it would have
been easy to miss it anyway, with my now fully erect penis forming a
large bulge in the front of my trousers pressing directly on her.

In any event, I had to apologize, and I did, couching it in vague
terms to spare her further embarrassment herself. But she smiled and
said it was no bother. In fact, she leaned forward and whispered it in
my ear: "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

I had no time to wonder what that meant, for no sooner spoken than I
felt a fumbling at my zipper and it slid down; a groping against the
fly of my underwear and my member was loose. Well, as loose as it
could be, trapped between us. Diane's soft hand stroked the stalk
while the tip enjoyed the tantalizingly slight roughness of the weave
of her suit's skirt.

"Oh," I said. "Indeed. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me,

She smiled again and put her other hand down between us. Soon her
skirt front was bunched up and the head of my penis was rubbing
against smooth silk. To be followed in short order by my hand, as I
returned the favor she had granted me.

While she continued to minister to my member, aided now by the
lubrication of some precum that had leaked out, I returned the favor
she had granted me. Palming the front of her panties, I cupped my hand
and began to squeeze gently and rhythmically. In short order I felt
the heat rise and a dampness. I slid up her smooth stomach and slipped
down inside her panties, inching through the curly hairs until I
reached the mother lode.

All this, let me remind you, was on a subway car packed to the gills
with passengers. The privacy of the crowd, that was: Everyone was
trying so carefully to avoid invading one another's privacy in that
very unprivate space that no one saw what was going on right in front
of them. Indeed, doing it in a public place seemed to add a special
frisson to our actions, for my penis felt thicker and harder than I
had ever remembered it, and the sensations as Diane massaged it --
occasionally sliding all the way up and rubbing the increasingly
sensitive tip -- were like none before.

Meanwhile my searching middle finger had found the entrance to her
honey pot and dipped inside. Two steps forward, one step back, I eased
into her, feeling her pussy lips blossom open. Deeper, deeper, now two
fingers inside here and the gooey lubricant of her own juices flowing
over them, I pulsed in and out.

Up above, Diane and I were carefully avoiding looking at each other,
save for quick but meaningful glances. Still, I could hear her
breathing grow shallow and knew I was doing the right thing down

How right I didn't realize until both her hands abandoned their other
tasks and grasped mine, shoving me further inside her. "Faster," she
whispered, and a few seconds later her head tilted back and I felt her
bod convulse against me. She brought her head forward again with a
broad smile and put both her hands on me.

But it was too much and I couldn't hold back. I immediately thought of
the mess it would make on her nice suit and tried to pull away, but
Diane would have none of it. Instead, she lifted her right leg and,
pulling aside her panties, slid my member into her hole, just in time
for an explosion of cum to burst inside her. She held me there as my
penis pumped a few more times and was still.

That might have been that, but while we were still so entangled the
train lurched to a stop at the next station. The motion plunged me in
and out of her, and quickly, to my astonishment, my member was rigid
and ready once more.

"Why, thank you, kind sir," Diane teased as she began to move her hips
against me. The primordial dance took us over. My pole slid into her
like a blade in its sheath, a tight but perfect fit, driving deep into
her cleft and out again. Her skirt was now completely gathered about
her waist and I took advantage by sliding my left hand up and down the
smooth curves of her stockinged leg while the left squeezed the tender
globe of her behind, pulling her tighter against me and sending me
even further up her canal of love.

Plastering my back against the metal pole behind me, I took her weight
on me as we matched our tempo to the jerks and lurches of the ride. We
really didn't have to move much ourselves; the train did all the work
as penis and pussy played hide and go seek. A screeching brake and I
plunged into her, the noise masking her own squeal; a sudden
acceleration and I slid out almost all the way, only to have the head
of my shaft pierce her again.

It was the first time I was ever happy that the transit authority was
so stingy about track maintenance. Every bump was another jolt of
sexual heat.

We had been going at it for about 15 minutes or so when I heard the
conductor call out my stop.

"I get out here," I said regretfully.

"Do you have to," she said, and squeezed me, not with her hands.

"I think I can stay a little longer," I said.

"Thank you," she answered, and we continued. Hot and hungry, her
opening devoured me. Hard and horny, I took what she had to offer, and
took it again, and again, and again. Each stroke was like the first, a
slide into heaven.

At last I felt the ending drawing regrettably near. Just then the
lights flickered out briefly. Diane's mouth found mine in the
momentary darkness; lips spread wide, our tongues touched. I felt my
loins tighten and then a gusher came forth. Even as I was emptying
myself into Diane a second time, she tightened up; I saw the muscles
on her neck form taut cords and felt the muscles of her vagina pulse
around me. She milked me dry and continued to convulse herself as I
softened inside her. She was still trembling when my completely limp
member slipped from her.

We looked each other in the eye then, and smiled. She put my flaccid
penis back in its pocket and zipped me up. I eased down her leg and
straightened out her skirt.

The train doors opened; it was her stop. She raised her eyebrows; I
nodded and mouthed my thanks. As she stepped out into the station, she
looked back at me. I just caught the words.

"Thank you," she said politely.

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