Wednesday, January 13, 2016

The Black Guy on the 4 Train

This is not one of my old posts, but one by Pervertically Virtuous
In the process of recovering my own old posts via email I discovered some of hers. Like me, her old accounts have been terminated, and she seems to have disappeared from the internet. This is a damn shame since I consider her one of the best sex bloggers I've ever had the chance to read and follow. I'm reposting her old posts as a historical archive, and if she ever returns to blogging I'm happy to hand them back to her. 
To be clear: the copyright on this work is hers, and remains with her - I didn't write it and I make no claim to it. (FYI: all links in this post are dead)

Pervertically Virtuous posted: "I noticed him as soon as I stepped onto the Downtown Express 4, 5 train platform: He was tall and Black, young but with a very cute face. Our eyes met for a few brief seconds before the train arrived and we boarded the same car, with him just a few steps "

recovered post on Pervertically Virtuous

The Black Guy on the 4 Train

by Pervertically Virtuous
flirting-on-subwayI noticed him as soon as I stepped onto the Downtown Express 4, 5 train platform: He was tall and Black, young but with a very cute face. Our eyes met for a few brief seconds before the train arrived and we boarded the same car, with him just a few steps behind me. The car wasn't too crowded, but there were no seats available, so he leaned against the doors - the ones on the side that wouldn't open for the rest of our trip downtown. I stopped and stood in the middle, holding onto the vertical bar between the two sets of doors. There were only two short feet - and no one else - between us.
I turned around to face him and examine him a little better. He wore baggy blue jeans that looked like they could use a wash, a simple oversized white t-shirt, and the familiar yellow Timberland boots that Black man seem to adore. Not too ghetto, but undoubtedly working class. I assumed he lived in the Bronx.
The large t-shirt hung loosely over his upper body preventing me from figuring out whether he was in shape or not. But there were no obvious signs that he was not, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt that his body matched his face in attractiveness. Worst case scenario, it would give both of us a fun little subway flirting moment. Best case scenario, well, the sky is the limit.
For the first half of our journey, I spent most of my time with my gaze directed to his upper body, close enough to his eyes to tease him, but far enough to maintain some level of mystery and uncertainty. I was trying to pay attention to the U.S. International Politics from the 1940's to the Present lecture coming from my headphones, but all I could really think about was how the situation was going to develop. Was he going to say something? Was he going to move closer and try to touch me? Did he have a 6-pack under that annoyingly baggy shirt?
Every few minutes, I would look up, and our eyes would unmistakably meet each time. He was devouring me with his stare, his mouth open a cautious, faint smile. It was always me to break eye contact first, but not before letting a few long, titillating seconds pass. I could feel my pussy tingle with arousal at this little game. Moisture started to coat my inner labia and it was only a matter of time before it soaked into my g-string. I couldn't help but stare at his crotch, wondering if he had a big cock that was now growing in his boxers. I thought I could detect a small bulge starting to poke out from his baggy jeans. I looked at him again, this time smiling naughtily before averting my gaze.
We reached the Grand Central station and more people crowded the train. There was enough space in between me and him for another person, and if I didn't move, someone was going to step in between us. Not wanting to let that happen, I rotated 90 degrees around the metal bar, stopping when my body was exactly perpendicular to his. My left shoulder was almost touching his collar bone, our faces only a few inches away from each other. He straightened up, adjusting his position to further decrease the distance between us. We were now as close as the moderately full car would allow without blatantly revealing our silent flirtation to all the other passengers. The sly smile on my face matched his own. There was no doubt in his mind anymore that this was no coincidence.
I let the movement of the train rock me back and forth, my shoulder lightly grazing his chest at each sudden turn or brake. As the train approached Union Square, I began suggesting this was my stop. I rotated another 90 degrees, turning my back to him and facing the opposite-side doors. My ass was now a few inches away from his crotch and I was hoping he would lean forward and press his body into mine. My pussy was soaking wet, aching to be touched. But he didn't move, leaving me wanting. I didn't know if he would follow me off the train. This could be my last chance to feel his body on mine and I had to do something. As the train slowly came to a stop, a dozen passengers started getting ready to get off. Certain that in this commotion no one would notice anything, I leaned back a little to meet his body behind me. For a few brief moments, the entire length of my back and his chest were locked in full, direct contact, sending shivers down my spine. I pushed my ass into his crotch. He was indeed rock hard.
I ground against his cock as long as I could before having to get off the train. I stepped onto the platform and hurried up the steps toward the L train without turning around. I reached the platform with five minutes til the next train. I looked around and didn't see him. I guess he didn't follow. The history professor from Berkeley was apparently talking about the oil crises of the 1970's, but I hadn't heard a word he had said. As I took out my iPod to start the lecture from the beginning, a hand lightly touched my arm. It was him. He did follow me.
"Hi," he said simply.
"I was wondering if you'd follow me," I smiled back.
"I almost lost you in the crowd," he countered, "you were walking so fast."
"I'm running late," I said vaguely. "Where are you headed?"
"I was going to meet up with my buddies at Union Square, but now I'm going wherever you're going," he admitted.
The offer was on the table, and it was time to decide: Do I want to take this to the next level?
I needed more information before making that decision.
"Lift up your shirt," I requested.
"What?" He was caught by surprise. (Understandably I suppose - women don't habitually ask men to lift up their shirts so they can inspect their abs. Am I that weird?)
"I wanna see what's hiding underneath," I offered. "Lift up your shirt."
He obliged. He wasn't overweight, but there were a couple of layers of fat over his stomach, and certainly no six pack. I then ran my hand under the sleeve of his t-shirt to check out his arms. Not particularly strong or well defined. Survey completed.
The decision was unambiguous: I was not taking this to the next level. He was cute enough for a fun little flirt on the subway, but not hot enough to fuck him.
"You should go meet your friends, sweety," I said, trying not to reveal too much of my thinking process and hurt his feelings. "I'm married, on my way to meet my husband. This was just a fun little subway flirt. I don't wanna waste your time."
"I got time, and I'm here already, "he protested. "Can I just ride the subway with you anyway?"
"Sure," I agreed. He was cute enough to prolong the flirtation for a few more minutes.
The train arrived and we stepped onto it together. As I was holding on to him closely, I realized my pussy was still wet from our exhilarating ride on the first train. I got closer to him and rubbed my crotch against his, bringing his erection back to life.
We made small talk as the train took us under the East River and into Brooklyn. He did not live in the Bronx, he lived in the projects on the Lower East Side. He was young, 22, and worked at a restaurant but hoped to go to college one day to study math. He tried a few times to change my mind about giving him my number and inviting me over. I was firm in my rejection, claiming that I couldn't do that to my husband. Yes, a lie, but only in order to protect his feelings.
We both got out at my stop. I really was running late to meet my husband, so I didn't have too much time to spare. But before I sent him off to the other side to catch the next train back to Manhattan, he asked for a kiss. Just one kiss. Fully aware it would be more that just one kiss, I agreed. He pushed me against the wall and pressed his supple lips on mine. His hands immediately started exploring my body, trying to make the most of the little time he had with me. He slid one hand under my shirt and squeezed hard my bare breast, making me gasp. His other hand traveled under my skirt and tights, groping my ass cheeks. I tried to extricate myself from his grip, but he didn't let go. Still grabbing my tits with one hand, he moved his other hand to the front of my body, sliding it under my panties to find my cunt dripping wet. He quickly ran his fingers up and down between my labia, then slipped two of them inside my pussy. I let out a moan, clenching my muscles on his fingers, before I pushed him away.
"I really have to go," I said, and with a brief kiss on the lips I ran toward the nearest exit.
This happened a few months ago and with so much backlog I wasn't going to write it up. Then I stumbled across this blog post about The Blue Eyed Girl on the B Train and I was inspired. While Maverick Traveler and I don't see eye to eye about what the proper roles of men and women in the sexual arena are, should be, and could be, he deserves credit for inspiring this post. 
Pervertically Virtuous | January 13, 2014 at 4:32 pm | URL:

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