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Phantom of the Rush Hour   {Burnt_Feathers} (MF, nc, exhib, pett)

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Phantom of the Rush Hour
by Burnt Feathers ©


"Call it stalking if you like," the pleasant contralto voice
replied, barely reaching its intended receiver in the noise of
the crowded rush hour bus. "Robert is well worth the effort. I'd
have to be foolish not to track him down tonight at Josie's
Halloween Party."

"But weeks ago you told me that Robert wasn't all that good in
bed?" her friend's higher more nasal tones sounded in reply. "Has
he suddenly improved?"

"Billie Jo Petrie, I'll thank you not to remind me of every dumb
thing I have ever told you."

"What's dumb about that?"

"Have you seen his apartment? No. Have you seen his car? No. Do
you know what job he has? No. All you know is the nonsense I told
you right after we went to bed for the first time."

"Then he has improved?" Billie Jo speculated.

"Well, no," her friend snapped rather testily. "But sex isn't
everything, you know?"

"It isn't?"

"No!" As the blonde girl snapped back her reply a frown froze
upon her pleasant features. She tried to move a step sideways,
but the crush of bodies in the crowded bus held her in check. For
a moment, a guarded, waiting expression clouded her features.
Finally the woman relaxed and continued speaking to her friend.

"N-no, sex isn't everything."

"Well, if it isn't," Billie Jo replied, grinning. "It takes
first, second, and third place, even first and second honourable
mention if the guy has his act together."

"If only you weren't so congenitally drawn to losers, B.J.," the
blonde began a familiar complaint, "maybe you might find someone
with a future worth planning together. Then you might understand
that there are other considerations than mere transitory
sensations."

Immediate laughter, was the blonde's initial reward for her
concern, followed by an amused confession.

"I'm sorry, Goldie," Billie Jo pleaded, "but you sounded so much
like my mother just then. . . ."

She compounded her mistake by breaking into more suppressed
giggles.

"Maybe your mother knows. . . ."
Again, Goldie broke off in mid sentence. This time she twisted
her neck, as if expecting to find someone behind her. She could
see nothing but the white-fringed bald head of a swarthy ancient
staring sluggishly at the back of the seat immediately ahead of
him.

"What's the matter?" her concerned friend inquired.

"Oh, I just thought. . . ." Goldie began, then twisted about
again, but saw nothing untoward. With a dismissive wrinkle of her
nose, she added, "It's nothing, forget it."

"You don't mind," Billie Jo asked her friend, "that I'm coming
along with you to the party. You weren't so set on Robert when we
decided to wear complimenting costumes."

"Sure, come along," Goldie invited, then added a warning. "Just
remember that once I identify Robert -- and I will -- you will be
on your own."

"Never fear," her friend replied. "I don't wish to come between
you and your precious Robert. And please don't introduce me. I
met him once, you know. St. Paddy's night in O'Brian's Tavern. I
don't know what you see in the guy. I think he's positively
milky. No style, no personality, even his expression said
'unoccupied.'

"You know," she continued, giving her friend tit-for-tat, "If
only you weren't so congenitally drawn to men who are practically
crossovers from the spirit world, perhaps you could find a real
boyfriend. One who could teach you why one half of the world goes
to bed with the other half frequently enough to cause population
problems."

"Yes, well, I know you are the las. . . ."

Again Goldie broke off in agitation. First she craned about to
see over one shoulder. Only the bald head patiently staring
ahead, could be seen. This time, Goldie swivelled about to look
over her other shoulder, and froze in awestruck wonderment.

He was the most unexpected thing to find on a rush hour bus. A
tall man, richly garbed in a dark-blue suit that very plainly
proclaimed its association with expensive custom tailors. She did
not know it, but Goldie was having her first audience with a
top-end, custom-fitted, Armani suit.

Beyond the suit, classically handsome features gazed with aloof
disinterest at the bus' crowded interior.

The tall man was such an wondrous apparition to appear on a bus
teeming with returning prisoners of the uptown high-rise office
cubicles, that Goldie's mouth dropped open.

The bus jerked to a start, nearly causing Goldie to butt the tall
man in the chest with her head. Quickly, she turned about and
tried to follow Billie Jo's meandering discourse.

The tall man could not be the source of her displeasure, Goldie
thought. No one as handsome, wealthy, and as well dressed would
travel on a crowded bus merely for the pleasure of copping a feel
of some strange women's bottom. That would be beneath the dignity
of someone of his obvious quality.

She nearly convinced herself that she had imagined the sensation
of a hand fondling the curve of her pert rump. A sensation that
had caused her turn in an attempt to catch the culprit on three
separate occasions. There was no one to catch, certainly not the
tall man.

But, again she felt the touch of an unseen hand gently caressing
the curve of her backside. This time, Goldie did not pull away
from the encroaching hand. This time she slowly turned her head
to squint back at the tall man.

He stood entirely at his ease, aloof and unconcerned. Even with
her eyes upon him, he seemingly felt free to meticulously follow
the impression cleaving her nether cheeks, down into the
well-sheltered overhang of her curvaceous posterior.

The cheek of the man was fantastic, she thought, smiling as she
realized that at that exact moment the tall man might be thinking
the same thing of her.

Turning back, Goldie tried to follow the words her friend was
speaking, as she waited to see how adventurous her handsome
assailant might become.

Quite adventurous, she decided almost immediately, as his wayward
hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress. With his fingers
curled about her inner thigh, just above her knee, there could be
no pretense of any accidental collision. This was unequivocal
trespass.

As Goldie turned her head again to gaze back at the tall man, she
could feel the hand gently ascend her thigh, until it reached
above the top of her stocking. Fingers from that hand reached
upward to caress forward along the scrap of pale blue satin that
covered her modestly between her thighs.

An immediate electric thrill ran up Goldie's spine. Tightening
muscles within drew relaxed tissues taunt. Even her nipples
hardened in response, as a familiar tingle passed through her.

This, she told herself, is just what I deserve for not wearing
pantihose.

The tall man was still gazing across the crowd, pretending that
he was not taking any more liberties with the woman by his side
than merely sharing a ride on a crowded bus.

She really should put a stop to it, Goldie knew, but already she
acknowledged that she did not have any great desire to scare him
off. How kindly would he take to having her publically humiliate
him by demanding he take his hand off her ass? Not much, she
imagined.

Nor did she really wish him to stop doing what he was doing.
Quite the opposite in fact. What goaded her most was the tall
man's furtive manner as well as the public nature of the
encounter. There was something more then normally perverse about
his actions -- about both their actions, for that matter. He
could not imagine that she was unaware of the groping. It seemed
that he was counting upon her complicity in her own molestation.

That seemed like a very perverse idea to Goldie. He must have
anticipated that she would allow this to happen. Had he chosen
her as someone who would permit a man such familiarity,
especially with an attendant audience to the deed. Someone who
would allow him to brazen it out if some mistake were made, or
objection raised?

Already, Goldie realized that she could not pull back from the
encounter. At least not with any believable explanation. How
could she claim that she had not realized she was being groped?

In for a penny in for a pound, Goldie thought.

The tall man's thumb and finger sought to press their way beneath
the pale blue satin that protected her from the direct contact of
his touch. Almost without volition, Goldie moved her foot to
widen the splay of her thighs as much as her moderately
constricting hem would allow.

Within seconds the tall man's thumb and finger encircled the
narrow band of material to stroke along the thickening flesh of
her nether lips.

"Oh," Goldie audibly gasped a ragged breath as a finger passed
along the edge of her assaulted lips.

"What did you say?" Billie Jo asked.

"Hmm?" replied a bemused Goldie.

"You made a sound, like maybe you had a pain, or perhaps you were
bored," Billie Jo recounted. "Is that it, or did you say
something?"

"Just bored."

"Yeah, who wouldn't be? Want to crowd toward the front? Maybe we
can find someone who is ready to get off? Sit down, perhaps?"

"Never mind," Goldie answered, "we'll be getting off soon,
ourselves." She paused for a moment, then added, "What were you
saying earlier?"

One of the positive features of Billie Jo as a friend was that
she did not require constant supervision in any conversation. If
one responded, she answered readily, and the exchange would
follow the direction of her interlocutor's interests. If no
questions were asked, she could be counted upon to maintain a
sociable babbling flow without any attention from her companion,
perhaps not even from herself.

The tall man's fingers, when she was free of considerations about
Billie Jo, were raking forward through the pubic hair beneath her
satin panties. They then ploughed backwards, sinking deep along
her cleft, stroking the soft curve of her rounded bottom, where
the tall man's wayward hand had first attracted Goldie's
attention.

No sooner had Goldie's unspoken wish that her panties would not
impede the tall man's access, than he acted to overcome their
restraint. With his thumb and finger encircling the satin scrap
between her thighs, he slowly pulled downward.
Goldie had no desire to be observed in crowded bus with her
panties descended about her feet, but before she could object,
they had been dragged well down upon her hips.

With her panties no longer an impediment, the tall man took
possession of Goldie, or perhaps she surrendered to him.

His fingers stroked to and fro along her swollen nether lips,
ploughing between both outer and inner labia as Goldie's
diaphragm tightened and her insides clenched, wringing forth a
light ooze of natural lubricant over her trembling loins.

Numbly through glazing eyes Goldie could see her white-knuckled
hand tightly clenched upon the upright stanchion of the bus. As
it wavered before her Goldie decided that her body must be
rocking with the rhythmic stroke of the tall man's fingers.

With deliberate care Goldie slid her hand above her head on the
sturdy chrome stanchion, then tightened her fingers again. With
greater leverage, it was possible for Goldie to steady her
position as the tall man conjured even greater arousal with his
captivating hand.

As she looked away after deliberately improving her support, a
thrill of fear shot through Goldie as she locked eyes with an old
lady staringly pointedly back at her. For a moment she was
certain the old woman would cry out denouncing her as a pervert.

A rapid glance shot over her shoulder to where the tall man
stood, informed Goldie that he was maintaining his stoically
aloof pose. She could not catch his eye.

Turning back, the old woman's stare remained fixed upon her with
bright beady eyes. Seconds stretched toward minutes as Goldie
tried to outface the old woman. She tried to evolve some strategy
to make the old woman go away and mind her own business, but with
the tall man's hand still stimulating her from below, that was
too much self-control to demand.

Beneath the old woman's fixed gaze logic finally seep into
Goldie's frightened wits. The old woman was ahead of her,
standing in the aisle. The tall man stood on the side opposite to
the old woman. There was no way the old woman could see what he
did from her vantage point.

Only Goldie could know that the tall man's hand was invisibly
toying with her pussy. The appearance of disgust upon the old
woman's face must merely be her natural expression.

The old woman posed no threat of exposure, but her continued
scrutiny distracted Goldie from the seduction of the tall man's
ethereal touch. With no better plan, Goldie stuck her tongue out
at the wrinkled old busybody who blinked beady eyes in response.

With an indignant "humph" the old woman changed position, turning
her back upon the disrespectful young brat.

Relaxing into the caress of the tall man's bewitch fingers,
Goldie almost yelped aloud, when those same magic digits gather
to press against her swollen clitoris.

"We must get off soon. Are you listening to me?"

"Huh?"

"Our stop is at the end of the next block," Billie Jo's voice
intruded. "Really, Goldie, sometimes I think you don't pay any
attention to me at all."

"Our stop?"

"Yes, our stop, "Billie Jo repeated. "If we don't begin pushing
our way through the crowd now, we won't get off in time."

"I'm not getting off yet," Goldie spoke in an unplanned evasion.

"Why ever not?"

"I. . . ." Goldie temporized. "I must go downtown, at least to
Cedar Boulevard."

"On Halloween? Whatever for?"

"There's something I've got to pick up."

"Downtown? The mall is so much handier."

"Not for this, B. J."

"I'll come with you," Billy Jo offered.

"No. I don't know how far I'll be going, when I'll be getting
off, or how long it will take before I get back. You best run
along home now."

"Well, okay. I'll see you tonight?"

"Possibly not. I'll probably just want to go to bed when I'm
finished."

"Aren't you forgetting Robert?" Billie Jo asked, in concern. "We
were going to Josie's Halloween Party?"

"I'm truly sorry, B. J. I'll owe you a big one for missing the
party," Goldie acknowledged, then added by way of confession, "I
don't believe I care so very much about Robert anymore."

"Good! At least something is working out right," Billie Jo
approved. "I always thought Robert was just a waste of skin,
anyway.

"Tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow!" Goldie promised her friend in their ususal word of
parting, as Billie Jo pushed her way toward the exit.

Briefly, Goldie felt bad about lying to her friend, but there was
little else she could do.

Had Goldie possessed the luxury of undisturbed reflection, she
might have realized that she had spoken no lie to her friend. She
was possessed by a handsome tall man with mystical fingers, who
was snatching her away from her long-anticipated evening and
absenting her from all her closest chums.

Tilting her head over her shoulder Goldie looked up at the tall
man. He was in the same stalwart position, looking straight
ahead, aloof and seemingly unconcerned. His fingers, however,
were busy kneading and drawing the flesh around Goldie's clit.

As much as she wished he would turn and smile at her, Goldie
realized that there was something to be said for the tall man's
strange fetish. Standing alone in a crowd of strangers, able to
feel an unseen hand goad her into ever greater and more thrilling
sensations, made it seem almost like some strange form of
spectral possession.

If she ever lost control, if she ever betrayed her condition,
would anyone believe what the tall man had done to her? Would
anybody believe that she had gamely hung onto a chrome stanchion
of a public bus while a total stranger had brought her closer to
orgasm in public than most men she knew could manage in comfort
and privacy? Could she believe it herself? Was that truly what
was happening, or was she caught in some strange form of
self-delusion?

Looking back over her shoulder to the tall man, admiring his
classical good looks, his imposing physique, his obviously
expensive wardrobe, she wished again that he would notice her.
Still, since he did not seem to require this, she would wait
until his fantasy was complete. Then they could become
acquainted.

At last, with her eyes upon the aloof tall man, Goldie came.
Little shuddering spikes of pleasure, one following the other in
rhythmic succession. She felt her weight pulling at her shoulder
as her knees threatened to buckle. Still, the tall man's fingers
devoured her, triggering a continuous succession of orgasms.

Her natural juices, which began as a lubricating sheen now
saturated her thick thatch of pubic hair, slathered down her
loins to dampen the tops of her nylons and liberally anoint the
tall man's unseen hand.

As Goldie curled forward under another onslaught of orgasmic
sensation, a fellow passenger hurrying to reach the exit collided
with her. Thrown backwards onto that trespassing appendage, her
weight pressed unexpectedly upon it as first one, then another
finger popped through the entrance of her vagina.

"Oh!" Goldie cried loudly as both digits were thrust deeply
inside her.

"Sorry, Miss," the fellow passenger excused himself, as he
continued toward the exit.

"Ooh," she moaned again, catching her lip between her teeth in an
effort to stop her cries of pleasure.

The two fingers within her turned to meet his thumb which was
centred upon the upper ridge of her pubic hair. Slowly his
fingers circled forward, within, while his thumb added further
leverage, without, by pressing it toward the two fingers.

Almost immediately, Goldie gasped and tried to pull away from
those griping fingers. A sudden need to urinate overtook her, but
the tall man would not release his grasp. Instead, it became
firmer, tightening to keep her from slipping away. His fingers
still moved within her as the sensation returned, stronger, with
its intensity inexorably growing.

He has no one to blame but himself, Goldie thought, if I pee all
over him, for the first time thinking an unkind thought about the
tall man.

The sensation continued, growing stronger until it seemed almost
unbearable. Goldie was becoming frantic, when suddenly the
sensation changed to one of almost indescribable pleasure.

Both hands gripped at the stanchion, her shoulder leaned against
it, while Goldie canted her hips to permit freer access.

Her eyes closed, while the tall man continued to knead her flesh
between his thumb and invading fingers. As he did so, the
sensation built to an unbelievable pitch.

First a whimper escaped Goldie's lips. Her fingers clutched the
stanchion in a white-knuckled grasp. Her breath rasped
asthmatically. Her hips began to describe a circle as they
squirmed in a rhythmic pelvic tilt. Her low moan of pleasure was
stifled by white teeth fiercely biting into her lower lip.

The pleasure became almost unbearable. Almost pain.

And then the painful pleasure disappeared in an enveloping
sensation of release. In a rush all her need, all her yearning,
and all her thoughts were whited-out in a passage of purest
sybaritic voluptuousness.

Later, still clutching the stanchion, held by its kind offices
and the tall man's hand keeping her from collapsing sideways,
Goldie's consciousness returned from her brief visit to Nirvana.
When she was able to hold herself erect, the grasp of the tall
man's hand left her.

She would never know how long she stood propped against the
chrome bus stanchion recovering from the exertions of her first
brush with true orgasmic pleasure. Belatedly, she would recall
that the bus had made no stops between the time when she regained
consciousness and the time that questions about what had just
happened, first arose.

All that would come later.

The moment she was capable of independent motion, Goldie's first
thought was to thank the tall man. Now that their little charade
was finished, it was important that they become properly
acquainted.
Perhaps not strangely, the impetus was no longer the tall man's
obviously expensive wardrobe, his classical features, his great
height, nor his well-formed physique. He had opened a door that
Goldie had not known existed. It was important to her that this
not be their only meeting. Such pleasure must be tasted again and
again.

Goldie turned to speak her first words directly to the tall man,
but when she turned, he was not there. Anxiously she scanned her
fellow bus patrons. During her involvement with her erstwhile
companion, the bus had emptied considerably. There was no one
remotely resembling her classically-attractive tall man anywhere
on the bus.

He had vanished.

For a moment she thought that her eyes were playing tricks on
her. Over and over again she checked each passenger. None of them
could ever be mistaken for her tall man.

There was no one tall enough. No one was handsome enough. No one
wore such an obviously expensive suit. Everyone looked small,
ugly and mean, compared to how she remembered her tall man.

For a time her brain seethed uselessly, but finally her usually
well-regulated mind took control once more. Realizing that she
was far from home, she knew she must get off the bus. She must
hail a taxi, and she must go home. She was in no condition for
any more travelling by public transportation.

It would be an unexpected expense, but Halloween was no time to
be wandering the streets alone, especially not in her present
condition. Besides, she would have spent as much for a taxi to
take her to Josie's party.

She could go home to bed and dream of her tall man, instead. She
no longer had any desire to discover how Robert had dressed for
Josie's Halloween party. Billie Jo was right, he was milky.
Insubstantial.

Perhaps she was to be cursed with insubstantial men. Robert in
his easily obtainable milkiness, and her talented tall man with
his will-o-the-wisp elusiveness.

Goldie approached the exit and waited for the next stop. In the
interim she could not resist one last glance back to where both
she and the tall man had stood. That was her undoing.

Trying to remember their precise position, Goldie examined an old
man, seated one seat back from a bus stanchion. He was swarthy,
with mid-European features, dressed in a blue and green checkered
suit, mercifully covered by a wrinkled beige raincoat. His head
was wreathed by a bushy white fringe.

Yes. That's the bald man, Goldie told herself. I stood there and
the tall man was right there.

"Oh!" exclaimed Goldie aloud.

But that's not possible!
Now that she could see the layout, Goldie could perceive that
what she imagined had just happened could not be possible.

She had been standing in the aisle, holding onto the stanchion
for support against the bus' jerky rocking motion. Billie Jo had
been on the other side of the aisle, holding onto the opposite
stanchion for the same reason. The tall man had been slightly
further down the aisle ignoring the bumpy progress with an
impressively stoic mien.

At the time she had been struck by his beauty and his height. It
was his great height that argued against her grasp upon reality.
The tall man had loomed over her, but his hand had entered easily
from beneath her hem. It simply was not possible for an ordinary
human to do that.

The bus shuddered to a stop. It bounced two passengers, also
waiting to exit, against her. A scream was emitted from the
releasing air brakes. The exit door sprang open. Both passengers
jostled her again as they pushed past her and through the exit.

Still looking back, Goldie suddenly found her eyes locked with
the swarthy old man slumped in the seat behind the bus'
stanchion. As they continued to stare, a mischievous grin slowly
crinkled both their features.

Before Goldie turned and finally exited the waiting bus, the old
man waggled one bushy white eyebrow, winked, and then returned to
ostentatiously licking his fingers.





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Phantom of the Rush Hour