When I first saw Miryam, I had already been standing in front of her for several minutes. On the New York subway, being forced into close quarters with strangers is a fact of life, and even recent transplants come to accept it right away. I’d been living here for years, and as soon as I found the space for my well-muscle, 6’2 frame, I grab a hand hold and become inured to my surroundings more or less immediately.
So, while I stood there in my suit, resigning myself to stand for the rest of the 45 minute commute back to my brownstone apartment in Sunnyside, I barely registered the outline of the person sitting on the bench facing me. And small wonder: she was looking at the floor, and her head was shrouded in her hijab. By every appearance, not being noticed was her goal when she left her home this morning.
I wouldn’t have noticed her at all, in fact, until a sudden swerve of the train caused our whole car to tilt over. I caught myself against the inertia, and in half a second had reoriented myself, but not before gently bumping against her as she sat. In fact, the car was by then so packed that I had in truth been standing mere fractions of an inch away from her, not even noticing until my thigh brushed against her shoulder.
She looked up, visibly startled, jostled out wherever her mind had been on the long ride back home. Her almond eyes narrowed, her pouty lips curved into an uncertain frown.
“Sorry, miss. Just a bit of turbulence, it seems like,” I said.
Her lips formed a hesitant but polite smile, and her gaze returned to the ground. Those few seconds left me awed. Her skin was like rosewood. Her round cheeks tapered into a narrow chin. She was luminous. My gaze followed hers, down the form-fitting jeans that tapered around her narrow ankles. Perhaps because her outfit was so consciously conservative, I was stricken by the bareness of her feet. Her sandals displayed elegant toes, flawlessly pedicured. With her legs crossed, one sandal dangled from its thong, letting me drink in the soft curve of her arch. They felt forbidden, these bare feet; for a woman who so deliberately covered herself, her feet felt salacious. Like she was flaunting them for me.
At the sight of them, I felt myself stiffen through my suit pants. And in that moment I became conscious of how truly close I was to her, as she sat in front of me. The slowly expanding girth of my buried cock was level with those soft, unsure lips. And yet, my instinct was not to pull back, to turn myself away from her. In fact, I found myself thrusting my hips closer toward her. I wanted her to know what she was doing to me, despite her best efforts. She couldn’t hide her beauty from me, and I refused to hide my lust for her.
For a few minutes she ignored me, but I noticed her body had tensed. After a while, she finally looked up, her expressed curled in disgust. But even as she did so, when her eyes became level with the swell of my cock, her jaw fell open in surprise. If she had been gathering the courage to tell me to back off, it had left her; I could almost see her trembling in the face of such a bold gesture of dominance. She quickly looked up at me, closing her mouth and gathering her expression into a glare. But I simply smirked back at her. She held my gaze as I leaned in even closer, slowly pushing myself towards her until the head of my cock, through my pants, was brushing her lips.
She froze. It was clear she was in a place of fear, that every synapse in her brain was telling her to jerk her head back, to look down, to tell me to fuck off. But something else in her, something deeper, was refusing to let her. I doubted she interacted with men often, and certainly never white men. Her life probably consisted of school, home, and prayer. She had never let herself get close to men, and went out of her way to give them no reason to come close to her. But whether she had known it or not, I was showing her: it was simply a matter of taking. Her body was a prize waiting for the man bold enough to claim it. And by sitting there, placidly allowing me to rest the bulge of my cock against her open mouth on a public train car, holding it there as her warm saliva slowly soaked through the fabric of my pants. she was telling me as much, even as she was realizing it for herself. She was mine.
I reached over her head and gently but firmly held her hair through the hijab. It was thick, tied in a bun, and I could feel her body tense with the shock of having such a strong, strange grip on such a forbidden place. Holding her head still, I started discreetly thrusting the head of my cock past her lips and against her tongue. We were in the far corner of the subway car, and I doubted anyone noticed. If they did, they said nothing, and I imagine simply stared. But it was late, and we were reaching the end of the line, and every stop more and more people filed out. With every stop, I grew bolder.
When I stood back, finally, I could see her eyes flood with relief, even as her mouth kept gently sucking for a second or two, still on autopilot. The relief drained from her expression an instant later, as I unzipped the fly of my soaked linen pants.
“Please…no…there’s people,” she whispered, her eyes frantically darting around.
But beyond a figure or two on the other side of the car, she was wrong. And it didn’t matter to me, regardless. When I took out my warm, throbbing white cock, she moaned audibly, from a place of dread and awe. When I grabbed her by her hijab again, she was shaking her head, even as she opened her mouth without thinking.
She took half of me before she began to sputter and gag for the first time. Such an undignified noise coming from such a prim little Muslim girl only made me all the harder, and I pushed her head harder down the length of my cock even as she instinctually recoiled. She sputtered again, and a stream of drool slide down her chin. She looked up at me, those big brown eyes wet with tears, and began shaking her head, trying to plead with me through a little mouth overstuffed with white cock. I gently but firmly slapped her cheek with an open palm, and those crying eyes widened and rolled back in pleasure. I was treating her the way she both dreaded and hoped a man would treat her, in the far-off day she was ever with one, and the realization of her fears and fantasies was overwhelming her. She stopped resisting, and I thrust my cock deeper into her warm, wet mouth.
Feeling the head of my cock against the back of her throat, I began fucking her mouth. Slowly, her muscles relaxed, the muscles in her jaw loosening. Drooling down her chin, she took me as deep as I needed. I pulled her hijab back, letting her thick black hair flow down; grabbing it, I fuck her pretty, docile face even more vigorously, growling low under my breath as I took her. She was hungry for it now, gulping and thrumming soft moans around the thick warm shaft of my cock. I groped her through her loosely hanging blouse, feeling a lush, full breast hidden underneath. I could feel her nipple, stiff under my fingers, and as I pinched she wheedled and whined with delight, eyes rolling back yet again.
“You’ve been hiding that body from everyone, but you can’t hide it from me, can you kitten?”.
She could only offer a muffled groan in response, the muted ecstacy of supplication.
“That’s a good little Paki whore. Submit for me now. Succumb to this white cock,” I growled.
She whimpered and nodded. With a few more thrusts, I was done. Stream after stream of hot cum filled her little mouth. Far too much, it proved: soon it was spilling down her lips, and she looked up at me, panicked, with tears spilling hot down her cheeks as my thick white load spurt down her chin and onto her blouse.
I pulled my cock out of her mouth and zipped myself up. I firmly but affectionately slapped her across the cheek again.
“You’re a very, very good little Muslim,” I told her.
She gazed up at me, a dripping mess, covered in my seed and her hot tears, utterly stupefied, but nodding.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
She was trembling, her eyes still streaming, her face the perfect visage of awestruck joy. I could see her face the profound relief of someone lost being given a purpose.
I took out a business card, handed it to her, and turned around. My stop had come, and I walked through the subway doors without another word.