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It took fifteen minutes for me to get inside my apartment after the train ride. Those fifteen minutes were agony. The ache in my pussy exceeded that of anything I could remember. I rushed inside, pulling my shirt over my head and unbuttoning my jeans, I collapsed on my couch and quickly fingered my clit to an explosive orgasm. I lay there quivering for a few moments before I pulled myself up and into the shower; where I masturbated yet again, the image of her in that seat and legs spread seared into my head. I had never been this affected by a complete stranger and my mind could not grasp the strength of it.

Now, it was two weeks later. Two weeks since the Spanish siren fucked herself just for me on that subway train. Two weeks of torture. Two weeks of obsessing over whether I'd see her again. My brain could not make sense of anything but her. My social life became non-existent and my work performance suffered to the point that I should have been fired. My friends and co-workers began questioning if anything was wrong and my boss began double-checking all my work. I couldn't blame him, my mind was anywhere but on my job.

I rode that train home at ALL possible hours of the day... morning, noon, and night; hoping I would run into her again. I became useless and pathetic. I was an unbelievable mess over this woman. But, no matter what I tried, I never saw her. I awakened on the fifteenth day, resolving that I would make every effort to forget her and move on. I did double my usual work in a regular eight hour day and left the ...

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