Subway Encounter Chapter 1
Imaginations are wonderful things. I used mine to create this story, which I hope you enjoy.
Subway Encounter
Chapter 1
I entered the subway car which was moderately full, standing room only and took a position near the door, as is my preference. Quite by accident, I was standing in front of a seat occupied by a kid with a hoodie pulled up over the top of his head. I couldn't see the face as he was looking downwards, fumbling with the controls of a cheap looking MP3 player. His fingernails were slightly bitten, traces of dirt under what was left of the whites of his nails. The skin on his hands seemed dry and slightly chapped.
I looked at what he was wearing, a pair of gray sweatpants that were grimy around his ankles, the fabric bulged out at the knees as cheap fabric is apt to do. The hoodie was different shade of gray also showing signs of prolonged use without a trip through a washing machine. The zippered front that was undone, revealing a non-descript striped tee shirt that was faded and worn. They looked like cheap clothes from Walmart.
The shoes were filthy looking sneakers, laces undone because they were broken off. He shuffled around in his seat for a moment and the movement released a current of air that brought his scent to my nose. It smelled faintly of stale pancakes and maple syrup. But I knew that the odor was not from his breakfast, but in fact was the mix of smells coming off his clothes and his body that signaled neither had been washed in a while.
He brought his hand to his mouth and looked up slightly as he yawned deeply, his teeth lacked luster and appeared in need of a good brushing. He pushed the hoodie top back over his head and revealed a shag of dirty blonde hair that was dull looking and creased in the haphazard manner that only comes from a major case of bed head.
He had a thin looking face, his complexion was as dull as his hair. A tiny yellow knot of sleep was affixed to the inner corner of one eye. The creases of his mouth slightly white with the dried residue of his sleep induced drool still present. Clearly he had not washed is face and presumably anything else since he woke up that morning.
His forehead was showing the beginning of perhaps half a dozen red spots that were precursors to acne. Beyond that he showed no other signs of maturity, so I mentally pegged his age at 12. He could have been 11 or 13, but he presented like a 12 year old, albeit one that had minimal interest in caring for his body.
It was pretty obvious that this was not a child who came from the sort of home where parents fussed over what he wore or when he bathed or what he ate for meals. Likewise, he seemed not to notice or care about his appearance and smell. Children do not have the capability of producing smelly body odor until their bodies ripen during puberty. What I smelled on him was the odors of his home, infused with the secretions from his boyish body. The maple syrup smell was characteristic of what urine smells like when dried and I assumed his underpants would be contributing to the sweet scent I noted.
He could be just the kind of kid that would respond to someone who showed him some interest. And if he didn't, well, he did not seem like the kind that would have someone eager to hear about a close encounter of a certain kind.
I continued to look at his face and although not overly cute, he was attractive in the way that most 12 year olds can be. Smooth skin, the peach fuzz on his face perhaps slightly more pronounced above his upper lip and running down the sides of his ears. His eyes were sort of a hazel colour. His lips thin, his teeth well formed and reasonably straight, no doubt those had occurred naturally as it was unlikely he would have been able to afford braces. He coughed a couple of times in the general vicinity of his hand and it gave the chance to hear his vocal chords which remained those of a soprano.
As the train swayed and rocked through the tunnel I found the movement and the view in front of me to be stimulating and with one hand grasped to the hand rail, I placed the other into my pants to make a necessary adjustment to a rise that was beginning to occur.
I began to think about what he might be like if he was cleaned up a bit and thought about what he might look like naked and in the shower. The shampoo would give some shine and body to his mop of hair. A wash cloth with a good spurt of liquid soap would clean the grime off his body, including the back of his neck, behind his ears and inside his hairless armpits. Then he moves on to wash his chest and abdomen with large circular motions. I imagined his nipples to be small, and perhaps a bit puffy, the dots in the middle protruding slightly when the wash cloth stimulates them. The crack between his bum cheeks would certainly transform to a much cleaner environment when he wedges the soapy cloth between them and cleanses his anal area of the accumulated debris. The genitals (I imagined them to be in tact) would respond to the slick soapy contact and stiffen a bit enabling the skin to be pulled back and the cheesy residue to his sweat, urine and probably the residuals of early pubescent ejaculations released from their confines and washed down the drain.
I would love to be there, holding out a fluffy warm towel in which to wrap him and then dry him off, ensuring the previous attention his genitals received were continued to the point of full engorgement. I presumed him to be hairless down there, but that he was a smart boy who knew how to pleasure himself, and that he would enjoy receiving a nice quick wank that would end with is belly spattered with the beads of clear liquid he was now capable of producing.
My crotch was no more than a foot from his face, my baggy pants hiding the adjustment I made to free my engorgement from an uncomfortable downward position to a much more comfortable due north heading. I doubt he knew much about me, but I was pretty sure I had a good reading on his background. Our eyes made incidental contact a few times and each of us looked away quickly. I was certainly enjoying looking at him, but didn't want to scare him off with any overt staring.
He then settled back in his seat a bit and seemed to stare off in the general direction of my crotch, but that was probably more accidental than intended, since it was directly in his sight line. I decided to send a signal and see what happened. I looked out the window behind him, careful not to look at him at all but confident I would see if he looked up at me with my peripheral vision. If he did, he would only see me staring out the window, paying no attention to him. With that I moved my hand inside my pants and made a very small, very slow and very deliberate back and forth movement with my hand, signaling that something was going on down there. The way my coat was positioned, it blocked anyone but him from seeing the activity.
I began and nothing happened, I stopped and restarted. Again, nothing. The third time I saw his head bob up quickly, and stay that way for a moment, but all he saw was me looking out the window. He looked down again, and I made the movement again. Another head bob. Another stare out the window. I continued and he stopped looking up at me so I cast my eyes down at him, just in time to see him squeeze his legs shut and adjust the bottom of his hoodie to cover his crotch. BINGO.
I glanced over to the subway map, I had already passed my stop, but had some time to spare and wanted to play this one out to see what (if anything) might occur. I teased him a bit more with my in pants movement and he locked into the covert action that was occurring. I could perceive that he was gently squeezing his thigh muscles together in quick groups of three, then pausing for a while before repeating it. As he shuffled in his seat the smell from his body hit me again and I felt the first sign of leakage into my briefs.
The train began to slow down and he gathered his hoodie around him and made a motion to stand up, so I moved out of the way to make room for him to pass me, almost enough room for him to squeeze through without touching me, but not quite. I pressed into his arm with my groin as he passed me and he looked at me, this time I returned the look, both of us with blank faces.
The train came to a halt and he exited, I let a few others leave behind him, then I too exited the car and turned in the direction he was going. I saw that he was about to look back, so I stopped, pretended to be busy with my coat and not noticing him as he most certainly turned to see if I was behind him.
After a safe moment of pause I turned my attention to him once more and saw him slowly making his way towards the end of the platform. I was not sure if there was a stairway there or not. Pretty soon there was no one there but the two of us, the rest of the passengers having busily departed the platform. He was poking his way towards the end of the platform and I was doing my best to not look like I was following him.
Before too long, I understood where he was heading as the icon indicating a left turn ahead would lead to a bathroom.
By the time I got there he was already inside. I pulled open the door and entered a somewhat dingy, sloppily maintained bathroom. One large handicap stall, two urinals and a sink. The smell of industrial soap competed with the odor of tiles perpetually stained with acidic urine.
The washroom was like a metaphor for the boy. Functional but ill kept.
He was just standing there, his complexion a bit ruddy now, perhaps flushed with excitement, or scared.
I approached him and opened my arms, inviting him in for a hug, which he accepted and soon his body was against mine, his head cradled against my chest.
How often to trains come by I asked him. In a clear, high and confident voice he stated `we have about 10 minutes'. It was not the question I asked, but it was certainly the answer I was looking for. I opened the door to the handicap stall and he followed me inside. There was some degree of privacy in case someone else entered the washroom, but clearly we were in a bit of a high risk scenario.
I approached him again and the hug continued. I moved from stroking his back to massaging his buttocks. He ground into me more tightly. I pulled back the elastic waistband of his pants and moved both hands inside and under the elastic band of his underpants and cupped his fleshy warm mounds, making circular motions that momentarily separated the cheeks. Holding them apart for a moment I felt for his hole and as expected his pucker had a slick and slightly greasy feel to it. I probed it gently with the tip of my finger while moving the other hand to his front and felt the hardness of his sex organ first against the palm of my hand, and then with the tips of my fingers. The length seemed to be only a few inches, the width quite slender, but the intensity of the brittleness of his erection was remarkable. His breath caught in his throat as I sized him up both front and back.
I dropped his pants to below his knees. His dank briefs, yellow and crusty looked several sizes too big. They easily came down and his boyhood was fully in view. His puberty had only just begun as evidenced by the sparse but visible signs of a patch that was taking hold at the root of his childish penis.
His erection complete, his tip covered with foreskin, his testes descended into its delicate sac. He had all the equipment, but it was still in a fairly small size.
I felt for him and he fell against me when I retracted his hood. The mild scent of his body much more pronounced as the secretion he produced had not recently been washed away. That mixed with any residual urine droplets had degraded into a shiny coating that smelled of boy sex. I pumped him gently for a few moments, not sure where to go next. It seemed like I was not the first man to touch him this way.
What do you want? I asked him. Too shy perhaps to say the words, he touched my lips with his finger then took that same finger and touched himself. I knew what that meant as I dropped to my knees in front of him. I took him between my thumb and forefingers and the skin easily retracted again, the spicy scent of his rectum on my fingers and the pungent smell of his immature smegma drew me to want to immediately taste him.
I inhaled the increasingly strong sweet and sour aroma of his privates as I took him into my mouth beginning with his joy stick. If he was soft his entire sex package would have comfortably fit in my mouth, but his furious erection prevented sucking all of him into me at once.
Providing oral pleasure is generally a taste free activity when the partner has practiced normal hygiene. In this case I was treated to the salty taste of his penis and the slightly tart flavor of the secretions that covered his glans. The taste soon went away as I licked and sucked him clean, but the vinegary scent from his little patch of tiny pubic hairs remained as I sucked him up and down. I longed for another taste of his body and removed his shaft from my mouth and replaced it with his scrotum. It too had the briny flavor that dissipated as I licked and sucked him there.
Mindful of the time, I again returned to the joystick that throbbed against his belly. With that again in my mouth, I held his ball sac with my left hand massaging his jelly bean sized orbs. With the other hand I scooted to his backside and felt between his cheeks to touch to again probe the moistness of his pucker. The pad of my middle finger docked against the opening and I massaged him gently, making no attempt at penetration.
The pleasure he was receiving from my mouth and both hands advanced him quickly to a pre-orgasmic state which he confirmed by announcing softly that he was about to come. I continued to bring him along and within moments he thrust against me, and held still, his grimy hands grabbed my head and pulled me against him. His tiny sphincter muscle contracted. I could feel his penis rippling against my tongue and began to taste the mild saltiness of his climax as he grabbed my hair and held me in position. He let out a soft moan which he tried to stifle by softy grunting as his load was delivered in measured spurts. His ball sac contracted as he spewed his load, I counted seven contractions before he released the grip he had on my head. I swallowed his delivery and slowly moved my head back, my lips pulling his foreskin back in place as he exited my mouth. Curious as to the state of his ejaculate, I retracted the skin once more and gently squeezed his tip, forcing out the remnants of his climax. The beads that appeared were clear as glass, his fluid apparently still sperm free.
I licked him clean once again, and looked up at him, as he looked down at me and smiled. You're the best he exclaimed, and I had ample reason to believe he was making that comparison with some basis of knowledge.
With his erection beginning to subside, I felt a somewhat urgent need to tend to mine. I unzipped and exposed myself. The boy took it in his hand and made a fist around it and pumped with some measure of expertise. Almost immediately I hit the point of no return and began to shoot volleys to come across the expanse of the small room. He pumped away until I was clearly spent, his dirty fingernails slightly obscured by the final dribbles of my opaque ejaculation. He let go of me and shook the residual come off his fingers punctuating the streaky mess on the floor with little droplets that flung from his fingers.
He wiped his fingers against the front of his hoodie to dry them off. I brought my fingers to my nose and smelled him on me, the sharpness of his backside passage. I put myself away and zipped up. I reached for his underpants and drew them up to his waist. The pouch was stained and the fabric somewhat stiff, the accumulation of urine droplets, dirt, oils and probably his seminal fluid. I opened my wallet and pulled out two $20 bills and gave them to him. I drew his pants up into position around his waist. We stood there frozen in time for a moment, not sure what was next. Impulsively I hugged him again and when he turned up his face to look at me, I bent down and kissed him passionately. My tongue sought to part his lips and soon I could feel his teeth and tongue against mine. Like the rest of him, his mouth was tasty with his neglect, but not at all unpleasant. I placed my hands in his pants once again, longing for another feel. At a different place and time it might have been a possibility to pursue some sort of anal option, but not today. His hole was moist and I was able to insert my middle finger just enough to cover my fingernail before he clamped down with resistance. At the front, his penis was limp and very small, soft and almost squishy. Attempts to retract his skin only caused his tiny shaft to bend in resistance. I fondled him silently while dueling with his tongue.
We heard rumble of a train approaching the station and I released him. He went out the door first. I waited a few moments and tasted my finger, some of his brown patina now visible under my finger nail. I imagined the plentiful amount of taste there would be in that ripe little dude had I been able to properly rim him. All of the things that excited me about his neglectful state would serve me no purpose in an adult. But the tastes and smells of youth are fleeting and encounters are rare and rarefied events.
I washed up quickly, and left the washroom. The train entered the station and the boy got on. He was facing the window as the train left the station and as he passed me he gave a little wink. I never even thought to ask his name.