Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Subway Guitarist

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There are those who spend their life traveling the subway as no more than a means to transportation. I’m not one of those. I’m the type that calls the subway, work. My office hours are from 8AM to 10AM and again from 4PM to 6PM, Monday to Friday. I work during rush hour and only during rush hour. I’ve come to know exactly the times for which trains, and cars in it I need to board to earn the most money.

The idea came to me not two years ago after becoming a company-downsizing-casualty. It was about 4PM during the summer. I was sitting on cart 6 in subway train A returning uptown. I had just been downsized and I was extremely disappointed about the future. My training was as a musician, and as we know, most of us are starving while playing gigs… but where else: the subway system. There was this beautiful young girl pressed against her mans crotch, his hands were down her sweat-pants obviously making her feel better than I was.

I toyed around with the idea of working in the subway for a few months, and then it became apparent that corporate America didn’t have a cubicle for me. So I grabbed my guitar, put it on my back and hopped on the train. It took a few days to figure out how I’d get it done. I wasn’t going to become one of those public “giggers” at the same location everyday all day. I was going to move about the city trying out every spot to maximize profit. I was going to go to my clients, rather than have them come to me.

I currently have a list of regulars. Sometimes I’m free to gig, but more times than not I am booked. I start uptown on the C and work my way downtown, to then return home on the A. In the two years I’ve been doing this, I’ve only been approached a handful of times by strangers. All through hearsay. When that happens, I cancel my gigging with the source. It also tells me that I’m proficient at what I do that clients are eager to come to me. I’ve never taken a walk-up; always have been the one hand selecting clients.

I’ve considered myself street savvy. Not too much, but just enough to know that a free sample of a quality product gets anyone hooked. I use that knowledge to let my hands help me earn a living. I lost a client yesterday in the 9AM hour. He moved to the suburbs and will be telecommuting starting today. I haven’t had to find a new client going in 9 months, but I guess this baby is ready for delivery, so today I go out to find the “purr-fect” client.

Subway GuitaristAs always, I dress professionally with the exception of the guitar on my back. It’s part of my work-attire. A skirt-suit with high-heels, stockings, no bra to display the perk in my upper body, hair in a ponytail, and gray contact lenses; the gray colour always mesmerizes men. I stand on the platform waiting for my train that I know will be filled. Normally daily riders frequent the exact same wagons on the train, even if they don’t consciously know it, but it’s normally the same. Because I know that, I know which wagons have the highest return on my investment.

Today I choose cart 4 on train A going uptown. There are a few fellows who I know will ache to feel how well my hands play with instruments. The process is always the same. I place the guitar on my back to create a buffer space between the intended client and me. I follow him inside the train and stand back to back with him. During the ride I ensure that the guitar collides with him as many times as it can. Eventually they all turn to complain. When they turn to express discomfort, I turn, look at them and say. “Would you prefer my hands play with more than the guitar?”, Not yet has anyone rejected the offer. Some are more daring than others and outright agree. I’ll see how the one today reacts.

It takes not one stop for this fellow to ask me to watch my guitar. In the crowded train its difficult to move, but with years of experience behind me maneuvering in the crowded train, I quickly turn. He looks at me and tells me that my guitar violated his personal space. I look him straight in his eyes, break a smile, look down and don’t say anything. He responds with “I’m sorry, why the smile.”, “Nothing, it’s nothing.”, I says. He still inquiring, wondering why the flirtatious smile. That’s when I tell him: “Would you prefer my hands play with more than the guitar?”

He looks shocked. These mature-preppy fellows are all alike. Lots of bark and little action when confronted by an attractive woman and touched outside their comfort zone. His unresponsiveness is an agreement to my audacity. In the next bump I let my hand swing, gracing his already filled desire. He notices my intentions and closes-in just so. I grab a handful of him and strike a small chat. I talk mostly while he concentrates on my hand jerking him over the pants. These cats all seem to read the same fashion magazines, they all wear loose boxers.

With each station stop I grow bolder with the help of the increasing number of riders packing into the train car. By the fifth stop I’ve unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. My hand is down the briefs, my body is real close to his ear giving him a play-by-play of how he feels on my pretty and manicured hand. “It’s soft.”, says he. I tell him that ejaculating on it will feel much better, to stay close to me and let my hand play music.

I lie mostly to the men. Even the small gifted as this man; I tell them the things I wish were told to me were I a man and a woman was stroking me. I tell them I wonder how he would fill inside of me, wrapped around my lips, dripping from the side of my mouth. That I would love to stand beside him stroking all day; feeling the thick head between my fingers alluding to how the head would penetrate me. I push down farther to grab the scrota. I squeeze the contents hard enough for me to feel each individual one, for him to feel it nice and good. “I want them in my mouth.”, I whisper. “Jerk me, jerk me”, he responds.

The train pulls up to my next stop. It’s time to meet the next client. I pull my hand out, buckle him up, reach into my jacket pocket and hand him a card. “Call me tonight.” Maybe I’ll finish it. I slap him on his crotch, kiss my hand that I just hand down there, say “goodbye honey”, and run to my next client.

It doesn’t take convincing. He is mine and tomorrow the 9AM slot on car 4 of train A will be booked; rent paid.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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