I'm dressed stupidly today, plus it's late, and I'm yawning and tired and can barely stand up. This little red-headed woman wants no part of me, her in her frameless glasses and her high heels with her short business haircut and her petite grey suit with the very short skirt over smooth, round, beautifully turned, surprisingly long legs. I definitely want part of her. Part of the kneeling down on the platform was just because I'm tired, and part of it was acting out and getting a better look. Maybe she'd think different if she knew what part of me I wanted to give her. If she knew I wanted to wrap my big hands around her legs, run them up and down from the ankles to the thighs, with a little tickle here and a little tickle there, especially back of the knees, and the line just below her ass where the tan line would be if there was a tan line. The hands aren't the part I want to offer though. No, my hands are John the Baptist, preparing a way in the wilderness for the licking and the sucking on those little toes, tracing firm warm wet lines up the back of her calf and the font of her thigh, and back down the other leg and up again, making her cunt very jealous, so hot and wet and horney that she can't take it anymore, barely balanced in those giant shoes, with her back arched out from the brick station wall, her mouth open and her eyes closed, her hands on the back of my head, my hands squeezing that cute little ass I saw outlined under her skirt when she bent over to get a book out of her bag a minute ago, my head up under her grey skirt, my tongue, my serpent tongue, my risen tongue, my offered tongue, my flicking, licking, slow and sensuous, high speed turbo tongue on and off and hard and soft and fast and slow and warm and wet and up and down and side to side and round and round her clit feeling her ass quiver in my hands begging me, begging me, begging me for that orgasm she can't get from her husband, that orgasm she can't even get from her hand, from that orgasm that will blow her entire mind leaving her panting, spent, and spoiled for life beyond caring what obscenities she's uttered what names she's screamed, how utterly she has opened herself and her mind and her deepest darkest desires to a crowd of enraptured strangers.

But she just stands there, and avoids me, pretends maybe I'm not there, the weird looking guy, crouched on the platform, rocking and staring, staring at her legs, licking his lips, knowing what she's missing.