Offering at Door 7-1
“Honey, so where are we eating?”
“I booked us a table at that Italian place I saw on Byeolstar.”
“Really? That sounds amazing.”
“We’ve still got plenty of time before the reservation. No need to rush.”
“Okay.”
I linked arms with my wife and headed for the subway station. The outing seemed to have put her in high spirits; a smile never left her face. Even in those brief minutes of walking the street, trading small talk, I could feel the sharp, hungry stares of office workers heading home for the day.
Click. Click.
Every time her high heels struck the pavement, that explosive ass hidden under her tight skirt rolled with a rhythmic bounce. Whenever the fabric stretched taut across it, the line of her panties showed through without a shred of mercy. If the weather had been even a little warmer, the sweat running down the cleft of her rear might well have soaked a dark, damp stripe into the skirt right along the crack.
“Oh!”
In that instant, the men trailing behind us—men who had been quietly drinking in the view of her from behind—were handed a gift. She dropped the phone she’d been holding in one hand. She bent at the waist to pick it up, and the men walking behind her went wide-eyed and forgot how to breathe at the sight that filled their field of vision.
Bending forced her to push that ass out behind her, and the two full, straining cheeks ballooned against the skirt as if they meant to split the seams. The hem inevitably rode up a little in the back; with a bit of luck, a man might have caught a glimpse of the panties tucked inside her pantyhose through the rear slit of the skirt.
She scooped up the phone and gave a sheepish little smile, embarrassed—completely unaware that she had just set a whole pack of men’s hearts racing with that lush rear of hers. The thought alone made my cock twitch toward a half-hard state, and I hurried us back into motion.
Once we were inside the station, I checked the time. We had arrived exactly when I planned. The truth was, today’s date had a hidden purpose. My wife was giddy at the thought of Italian with me. I was not. Where we went barely registered as a concern. What mattered was the act itself: riding the subway with her—specifically the rush-hour Hell Train. That was why I had told her not to bother bringing the car.
I guided her through the gates and down to the platform. True to the evening rush, the platform was packed shoulder to shoulder with office workers heading home; there was barely room to put a foot down. Holding her hand, I pushed through the crowd and stopped at a particular spot.
7-1.
The door-position number painted on the platform floor. I led her into line in front of door 7-1, checked the time again, and casually swept a look around us.
A moment later, a middle-aged man drifted up from the back of the line and came to a stop. The second I spotted him, my heart started hammering. He was the entire reason I had brought my wife onto the Hell Train tonight.
He looked to be in his forties, dressed like a section chief or department head. Ordinary face, the kind you pass a hundred times a day—but I had been watching him for weeks, and I had noticed something particular. Every day, at the same time, he boarded at the same place: door 7-1. For reasons of its own, that section of the platform always drew a heavy line of female office workers. Board at 7-1, and you spent the whole ride hemmed in by women.
Anyone who has ridden the Hell Train at rush hour knows the rest. At every stop, the endless flood of people getting on and off forces bodies together in ways no one asked for. This man knew exactly how to use that. He would arrive at 7-1, scan the women nearby, and if one caught his eye, he would casually shift into her line. Looks and age seemed secondary; body type was what mattered. Once aboard, he would worm through the crush with stubborn precision until he stood right behind his chosen target—and then the real show began. Phone up, as if reading messages, he would press in close and start the groping in earnest. He didn’t shy from the blatant stuff, either. On the Hell Train, bodies get plastered together whether anyone wants it or not, and he squeezed every drop of advantage from that fact. Some women couldn’t hide their disgust. He never cared. It’s the Hell Train. Can’t be helped. I didn’t mean anything by it. That was the story he seemed to tell himself. And until his target reached her stop and stepped off, he rode the whole way wearing the face of a happy man.
That’s right. The hidden purpose of today’s date was to offer my wife up to him.
Just as I expected, his snake-eyed sweep of the platform snagged on her and stuck. There were younger women all around us, but his gaze refused to leave my wife. She was standing with her weight on one hip, which made one cheek of her ass tilt up a little higher. The skirt was pulled so tight the full contour of her hips showed through, and below the hem her stocking-clad calves ran straight down into those precarious high heels. He dragged his eyes up and down her body and swallowed hard, then shifted into our line.
A moment later the train rolled in, and the press of bodies shoved my wife and me aboard.
“Honey, is it always this crowded?”
“Rush hour. Nothing you can do about it.”
She looked a little rattled by how packed it was. I pulled her into place near the doors on purpose. There was a reason I didn’t push deeper into the aisle by the seats. Even on the Hell Train, if you work your way in toward the seats, the traffic thins out enough that a careful stance can spare you most of the unwanted contact. That would have wrecked everything I had planned, so I chose the door area instead.
Right on cue, the man was already pressed in close around her. Anyone with eyes could tell we were a married couple, and he clearly could not have cared less. Bold didn’t begin to cover it. In his field of vision, there was only my wife.
Before long the train reached the next station. The doors opened and a river of people surged on and off. I recognized the moment for what it was: time to hand him his gift. Feigning a need to shift position, I eased a half step back from my wife. He did not waste the crack of space. In a blink he had slipped between us and claimed the spot, wedging himself right into the gap that had opened between her and me. Phone out, he pretended to be occupied with something else. Suddenly separated from me by a stranger, my wife glanced over and laughed as if the whole thing were funny. I smiled back and put her at ease.
The train started moving again. She turned to face the doors. Exactly as I had known he would, the man eased in tight against her from behind. I stood silently at his back and watched the two of them.
First he pressed his lower body slowly into her ass. Then, matching the sway of the car, he began to grind himself against her in a slow, deliberate rub. I glanced down. The front of his suit trousers, right at the zipper, was tented hard. There was no mistaking it: a fully erect cock, rubbing into my wife’s rear.
I checked her face. Still no real change of expression. On the Hell Train, she seemed to be writing the contact off as nothing worth fretting over. Her quiet stillness only fed his confidence. He pressed even closer and started working that hard cock over her ass in earnest. What had begun as a soft, train-timed brush across the surface of her hips became full pelvic thrusts, smearing himself over the whole of that ass. From where I stood, it looked exactly like a man taking her from behind while she stood there.
Blood started pooling in my own cock in answer.
He kept up the pretense of reading his phone, but every so often his eyes flicked down to check the angle of her ass. There was clearly a position he was hunting for. After rubbing himself over her from one spot to the next, he suddenly hesitated, adjusted his stance—and then began rolling his hips up and down in a steady, purposeful stroke. The satisfaction on his face told me he had found the angle he wanted. One look at his crotch confirmed it. He had nestled that angry, swollen cock right into the cleft of her ass and was grinding it there—like a man fucking a pair of tits, only it was the valley between my wife’s cheeks instead of her breasts. He worked so hard that every stroke carved a deep crease into the skirt along the line of her crack.
When the train stopped at the next station, he took a step back. I looked at my wife’s face. Both cheeks were flushed, and she was biting lightly at her lower lip. She had realized by then that what he was doing was not normal. But I already knew she would not push back. She had always been the sort who could not bring herself to say an unkind word to anyone, the kind of woman who swallowed injustice whole and fretted over it in silence.
A moment later the doors sealed shut. As if he had only been waiting for the cue, the man pressed himself flush against her once more.