Inside the Sunday Paper...

Inside the Sunday Paper...
By: Janet1950

A long time ago, I was seated in an elevated train car in Chicago early on a Sunday morning. I had to get downtown to a hotel restaurant I'd been at the night before because I'd left behind my favorite silk scarf with at the coatcheck room and I worried that if I didn't head back down first thing the next day, it might just disappear (or so I was kind of warned of by the helpful restaurant employee who took my call when I woke up and realized it was missing). How I could get my coat but forget the scarf is beyond me but, in any case, I was determined get it back.

Even in a big city like Chicago, there are times when the "els" (as we call them) are like ghost trains, racing through the city with not a soul inside them. At a time like early Sunday morning, or very late on a weeknight, the city transit authority reduces the size of the trains from as many as eight cars down to only three, to save electricity I guess.

I walked to the station near my flat, dropped my token into the slot and hurried down the stairway to the subway platform (elevated trains ride above and below ground depending on where you board; my ride was going to be all underground).

Good timing, I thought, as in just a few minutes along came a train that was headed in the right direction for me. I walked into the third and last car, which was as empty as the first two and, for a change, I could choose any seat I wanted, a rare treat for me.

The train pulled away after the pilot or whatever he's called announced what the next stop would be over what had to be the scratchiest-sounding speaker system on earth. If I had been an out-of-towner, I'm sure I'd have had no idea that hearing "wando nek" really meant "Randolph next."

As we approached the next stop, I saw several people standing along the platform, a few ladies and a man; I was going to have some company, I thought. But when we came to a halt, the ladies backed away from the train and, from their gestures to each other, I'm pretty sure they had realized that this was a southbound train and they wanted to go north (it's easy to get disoriented about directions when you get below the street).

However, the lone man did board the train and happened to enter the car I was in. He had a suit on and clutched a newspaper in his hand. Seemed a little disheveled, but at least he didn't look dangerous.

The man strode down the aisle as we started moving again and he plopped himself down on a seat across from me and a few seats to the right. No eye contact attempted. Fine, I thought. He opened up his paper and "disappeared" behind its pages. It reminded me to grab a Sunday paper on the way back home.

I occupied myself with examining my nails as the train scooted along, wishing I had something to read, too, especially as I heard him turning from page to page.

My eyes wandered for a bit and as I was reading the ads plastered along the walls, I was distracted by the rustling sound of the man's newspaper. It was if he was turning from page to page as fast as he could, maybe looking for some story or maybe a sports score or a car in the classifieds. So I turned my eyes back to him.

It took only a moment to realize that the rustling sound wasn't because of him going rapidly through the pages. Instead, the sound came from the paper shaking like leaf in a windstorm! I was just about to ask him if was having a seizure or something when it struck me: He was masturbating like crazy behind that paper and his hand or his you-know-what was banging into the pages !

I didn't know what to do ! I looked away, but then, for some reason, I looked back as he continued. The rustling noise seemed to get louder and louder, and I'm sure by then he had to know that I was aware.

I guess I was just gazing/staring/gawking in his direction when, all of a sudden, he lower the paper a bit and looked over at me, catching my eyes with his. I looked away as fast as I could and waited a few seconds to check if he was still peeking over the top of the pages at me. He wasn't.

Then, as I went back to watching him,he slowly raised the spread-out pages higher and, looking down, I could see why. He'd lifted the paper up enough to expose his lap, and there it was out in plain sight: His hand was gripping his erect penis and he was jerking on it up and down so feverishly that it almost seemed like he was trying to hurt himself !

Through all this, I never heard a moan or a groan nor heavy breathing or gasping. Just the sound of the paper (a little less loud because he wasn't banging against it anymore). And he was pulling on that penis like there was no tomorrow!

I nearly jumped when the voice of the "pilot" announced another stop was coming up. The sound of his paper stopped immediately and he lowered it to hide what he had out of his pants. When we got to the next stop, I wasn't as surprised that there was no one waiting to board the train, as was really, really surprised that I didn't jump up, bolt out of that car, and run up to the street !

But I sat there, with the man across the aisle. The car started moving again and it wasn't ten seconds that passed before up went the paper and back he when to stroking and fondling and tugging on his penis. And what did I do? I can't believe that I sat there and watched, staring constantly as he did his thing in front of me!

We entered a tunnel on a relatively long stretch of track. The man placed his paper on the seat next to him and sat there, not looking at me at all, and went at it like crazy ! And I watched the whole time, and he, of course, knew it.

Suddenly I was caught off guard---he looked over at me and saw that my eyes were glued to the view he was giving me. I blushed as I realized that he'd caught me but I kept on watching. And that must have been what made him decide that it was time for the "finale".

He started jerking on the shaft so fast that it was a blur. On the "downstroke," the tip of his penis poked up above his closed fist for a fraction of a second and then slipped out of sight, covered by his fist on the upstroke.

Then, without a noise, without a gasp, the man's body jerked and tensed up. Out of the purple head of his penis spurted a huge stream of white semen, straight upwards, so high that it seemed the second spurt squirted out before the first dropped back down onto his hand and onto his trousers. Then came a third burst of semen and another and then a smaller spurt.

His hand had gotten all "gooey" as his penis shaft was covered with semen--- and he kept on going at it. Really, I swear that I could hear the "squishy" sound of his hand sliding over his cream-soaked shaft! There was so much, so much... but he began to slow the pace and seemed ready to stop altogether. Instead, he started squeezing it very hard, slowly pulling it upwards. He was milking out the last few drops of his orgasm--- as if he didn't want me to miss a drop !

He jiggled off the last droplet and went back to sliding his hand along the shaft, which was quickly softening and shrinking. All that semen had turned frothy from him using it, in a way, as a lubricant all that time.

Like someone who would hand a tissue to a person who just sneezed, I took out a few from my purse and reached out to him, offering him a way to "clean up". He nodded to show his appreciation and took the tissues, wiping along his penis before turning his attention to the globs of cream that had back come down on the pubic hair at the base of his shaft.

When the next stop was announced, and it was my stop, the man tucked his penis back into his pants and zipped up as the train slowed. I stood up, certainly not knowing what I should say, if anything. So I didn't.

I stood at the door and wondered "Is he going to follow me? What if he does?"

I decided to glance back over my shoulder--he was still seated. I was a bit relieved, to be honest. But before I looked away again, the man stretched his arm toward me and, smiling, he offered me the used tissues he was clutching in his hand.

Dripping wet with semen, I tucked them into my purse and walked out of the car....

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If it hadn't been for that experience, the trip would've been a waste: That little bitch at the coatcheck room was probably the one who decided to steal my scarf !