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From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 1 May 2002 05:01:10 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Please Don't Ask How I Got Home (MF) Subway series #7
Date: Wed,  1 May 2002 13:10:02 -0400
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NOTE: This is the seventh and final game of the Subway series. 

NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Subway series #7:
Please Don't Ask How I Got Home
By theGreatxIam

Going with Clarissa was like teaching yourself to parachute.
Exhilarating, but also very unnerving. And darn complicated.

A friend of mine set me up on a blind date with her, saying I was
moping around too much, six months after I'd ended my first "grown-up"
relationship -- you know, the first one where the main reason we broke
up wasn't that one of us had gotten sick of  "our song." Bobbi and I
had been together for three years and we'd split when I got tired of
asking her to marry me.

Clarissa, this friend said, would be the perfect antidote, someone who
would get me out of my oh-my-god-I'll-never-get-married funk. I
thought he meant I'd realize I could still be attractive to women.

On the very first date, all my friend told me was that Clarissa was
about my height, raven-haired, and would be wearing red.

So I'm standing in the lobby of the Chastain Hotel, which looks like
every one of the five diamonds it gets, scanning the lunch crowd
nervously. I see berry-red pantsuits, blood-red jackets, brick-red
blouses, and even a crimson sun hat. And all of them with dark hair.

But like they say in the old war movies, you never see the one with
your name on it.

I had just about convinced myself that one of the pantsuits was my
date when a hand flew out from behind and spun me around. I barely had
a second to notice the fire-engine red vision -- from 4-inch fuck-mes
to micromini to spangly tube top to blazing lips -- when those lips
were plastered to mine and my tongue was going best two falls out of
three in a wrestling match. Whoever this woman was, she certainly
seemed friendly. Her body was pressed to mine tightly, nipples poking
my chest, one leg wrapped around my thighs. Her hands gripped my head,
pulling me into the long, long kiss. There have been boy bands whose
entire teenybopper-blessed careers haven't lasted as long as that
kiss.

When she finally let me gasp for air, she shoved one hand onto my
crotch and checked out my burgeoning hard-on.

"You'll do," she said, pulling me by the belt toward the hotel
restaurant.

"I'll do what?"

The woman in red looked exasperated. "It's a first date," she said. "I
won't know that until dessert, at least."

"But you don't know who I am, do you? I sure don't know you."

"I'm Clarissa," she said. "And if you're not the guy I was supposed to
meet, who cares? You still give good tongue, and the rest of you seems
glad to meet me."

It quickly became apparent that my buddy had not been concerned about
anything as pedestrian as my self-image. He had diagnosed me as too
boring and had a precise prescription: sex and thrills. At the same
time.

Clarissa all but raped me that first day. I was pulled along in her
wake into a torrid affair. Meals and the theater and such were just
things to do in between fucking. And it was indeed fucking. No
pretense of "making love" for Clarissa.

Nor was simply falling into bed good enough for her. At first it was
things I could handle, like hot kisses in the theater lobby at
intermission and the missionary position on her kitchen floor. But
more and more, her passion for public displays of affection
intersected with her passion for passion.

We took a flight to Hawaii: She blew me in the bathroom. We got to our
condo: She had me pump her on the patio; I was actually grateful we'd
gotten stuck on the top floor. Late one moonlit night she found an
empty stretch of beach: We had sex on the sand.

Increasingly, sex on a bed was too mundane for her -- unless the bed
was set up in a furniture store at noon on a busy Saturday. (No, we
didn't -- but she did give me a handjob in the religion aisle of a
Barnes & Noble one slow Sunday morning. I swear you could hear the
gates of heaven clanging closed.)

I am not a prude, and Clarissa was definitely worth the risks. But I
started to balk at some of her more flamboyant ideas. Yes, I crawled
under the table at my cousin Eddie's wedding and chewed Clarissa's
cunt -- Eddie's mom never liked me anyway and she'd stuck me in the
back of the hall with the bride's stepfather's second wife's nephews
and two couples who vaguely remembered having known Eddie at some
summer camp. And yes, Clarissa and I did do the horizontal rhumba on a
gurney in an emergency room after she'd cut her leg slightly trying to
climb out onto a rocky ledge overlooking the local monastery.

But I drew the line at tit-fucking her in a rowboat at the park
lagoon. (I tried to use the excuse that I can't swim, but she pointed
out that the lagoon's only two feet deep.) And I absolutely refused to
do a 69 in the glass elevator of our big local mall on the Friday
after Thanksgiving.

"You're no fun anymore," Clarissa said with a frown. I was afraid I
was losing her, and I wasn't sure if that would be a bad thing or not.

Because Clarissa's penchant for public pubic activity was getting
awkward, and we didn't have anything in our relationship but sex --
but that sex was amazing.

Clarissa had a body that would have made the Pope sweat. She's the
only woman I've ever seen who had a figure of Barbie-doll proportions:
long, long legs, a tiny waist between moderate hips and big tits that
defied gravity. Her oval face rode atop a regally long neck. Throw in
bee-stung lips, doe eyes and a halo of sun-blonde hair and that's her.

As if her natural attractions weren't enough, she had a pro's touch
with a makeup brush. Sapphire eyeshadow, blushing cheeks, a high gloss
on those sensuous lips. And a wardrobe that could get arrested for
prostitution just hanging in the closet. Never has so little cloth
done so much for mankind. Tiny skirts that would barely have covered
her panties -- if she ever wore panties. For more demure occasions she
could slip into a pair of black leather pants that fit her tighter
than the cow they were skinned off, so tight you could count the hairs
of her bush -- if she didn't shave herself back to virginal
smoothness.

She didn't have a single pair of "sensible" shoes. Nothing but spikes
and platforms.

Her tops came in two types: tight and tighter. No, I lie: She also had
an array of men's shirts (I presume her version of notches on the
bedstead) which she wore unbuttoned and knotted above the navel. They
flapped open so much they would have shown most of her bra -- if she
ever wore one of those, either.

For the most formal events she did have clothes in reserve -- silk
dresses that looked like they'd require paint remover to get off;
chiffon and lace concoctions more transparent than Macy's windows and
with a much more interesting display of goods inside. Once she took me
to a funeral -- I don't know whether she knew the dead guy's family or
just wanted an excuse for our post-burial fuck among the tombstones.
Anyway, I was in a suit and tie (I never did get the grass stains off
the knees). Very proper. Clarissa showed up in black. As in a black
leather bustier that did, indeed, make her bust bustier. A black lace
skirt that let everyone see the results of her below-the-belt
barbering. Strappy black heels. In short, she looked so hot that if
they'd opened up the other half of the casket they'd have had visual
proof that she could make a stiff stiff.

On top of her looks, on top of her clothes, Clarissa in bed -- or
anywhere else -- was a wet dream come to life. Emphasis on the "come."

She sucked cock like a Hoover with lips. She could and did take me
down to the root -- I'm no stallion, but, I mean, she didn't gag or
anything. I think her throat was double-jointed.

And she fucked even better than she sucked. Lying down, sitting up,
standing, squatting, on all fours, or any other position you could
name -- and several that I'm pretty sure have no names -- Clarissa
gave as good as she got. She could flex the muscles of her cunt like a
boa constrictor and pound her hips faster than a hummingbird flaps its
wings. Yeah, she fucked like a bunny -- like the Energizer bunny.
Except he keeps going and going. She kept coming and coming. I swear
she could have an orgasm if you just touched the tip of her nose. Do
you realize what it does to a guy's ego when he's gotten a woman off
six times in one night? And for Clarissa, that would just be shooting
par. She made me feel like the greatest lover in the world.

So she was perfect except for the one teeny, tiny, infinitesimal flaw:
She was stark raving crazy about exhibitionist sex.

I couldn't tear myself away from her, but on the other hand I'd gotten
kind of used to not being jailed on morals charges. It was a dangerous
line I was walking.

So when Clarissa came up with her next bright idea for, as she put it,
"livening up our relationship," I was very aware what was riding on my
answer. Saying no would almost certainly send her off to find someone
more adventurous. The sane part of me had no problem with that. But
the sane part wasn't in charge. I had a Clarissa addiction and all I
could do was say yes.

She wanted to have sex on the subway. At rush hour. Anonymous sex, she
said. And when I asked what that meant she said the rules were I
couldn't speak to her. Had to go along with whatever she did, no
questions, no hesitation. All she would promise me was that she
thought we could get away with it -- and that I would be surprised.

In fact, it was all going to be like a secret rendezvous. We would get
on the train separately -- she had the timing down to a science. It
was supposed to happen like a chance encounter. Beyond that, Clarissa
would only smile mysteriously.

The last time she'd pulled one of these play-acting stunts, she'd met
me at a park dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl's uniform and made me
walk through the park with her, hand in hand, with everyone staring at
me like a babysnatcher, before pulling me into the bushes and into her
bush. I was not a little afraid of what she had in mind this time.

The next afternoon, I rushed out of work and checked my watch
carefully. At the appointed time I wormed my way onto the second car
from the rear of the northbound train. I hadn't spotted Clarissa, but
she had to be around somewhere.

The subway was as jammed as ever that day. Some blonde almost removed
my spleen with her elbow as we jostled together. It was Easter week,
so besides the regular work crowds there were lots of schoolkids. I
tried to find a spot away from them as much as possible. Clarissa was
not likely to worry about whether there were any minors around when
she pounced, so I had quick nightmares of some little kid yelling
"Mommy, Mommy, look at the funny way those people are kissing!"

I excuse me'd and sorry'd my way through the car without seeing
Clarissa. I finally had my progress completely blocked by the packed
passengers at the far end of the car. Almost at the same time another
surge of passengers boarded at the next stop and I was trapped like a
sardine -- and believe me, the crowd was almost as smelly -- in the
aisle between two sets of doors. Only the pressure from all sides kept
me upright when the train lurched into motion; there were metal
half-walls forming the sides of benches on either side of me, but
several layers of standing passengers kept me from grabbing either
wall for support. We were packed so tightly that I couldn't raise my
arms from my sides without elbowing at least two people. It was so
crowded that your "personal space" -- the zone other folks had to stay
outside to avoid discomforting you -- shrank and shrank to avoid
overloading your brain. I could feel it contracting. It had started
out at the normal foot or two, but quickly zoomed inward. I thought it
was stabilizing somewhere around the outside of my clothes, but it
kept going. In seconds I was so adjusted to conditions that my brain
wouldn't have objected if someone's finger sank three inches deep into
my flesh. Which wasn't that far-fetched; there are Siamese twins who
aren't as close as we all were.

Gradually, though, I began to notice that someone seemed closer than
everyone else. Someone behind me kept brushing the back of my neck.

With no small amount of difficulty I spun around. The annoying
rubbing, it turned out, was the flapping of a veil. A brown veil of
heavy cloth. A nun's veil.

Oh, she had outdone herself.

Though she kept her back turned and didn't say a word, I knew it was
Clarissa. Right height. Right build, from what I could tell under the
habit, a loose, bulky robe that fell all the way to the floor. And
just the right degree of outrageousness to the whole idea.

But how was she going to do me? I figured a hand job, with the
oversized sleeve of her habit covering it up.

But I was underestimating my Clarissa.

As the train bounced and heaved, we were all being tossed against each
other. Only I noticed that one person kept bumping me in what you
might call a most intriguing way.

Standing as we were, Clarissa's ass was perfectly aligned with my
crotch. Every lurch had her butt bopping me. In no time flat I had a
hard-on that pointed straight at her.

I could have waited for her to take the initiative, like I always did,
but I figured I needed to prove I wasn't a wimp after backing out of
her earlier suggestions. And I realized part of the point of the nun's
habit must be that she was playing the innocent.

If that was how she wanted to play it, I thought, fine. This really
could be my chance to prove I was no prude.

The next time the train's motion brought us together, I was ready. I
met the bump of her ass with a little extra zing. Her shoulders
flinched.

After another bump or two, I kicked up the heat a notch. I not only
met her bump for bump, I pressed forward, riding her ass for a moment
before I backed off. Gradually I increased the time we were in contact
until we were virtually joined at the hips. I kept rubbing my crotch
into her, going with the rhythm of the train.

I was actually getting into it, without any qualms. This whole
sex-in-public idea was turning me on.

If anything, it wasn't enough. A dry hump is bad enough, but the heavy
cloth of her robe and the zipper over my cock were making this like
kissing through glass. I wanted more. Hell, I needed more.

First things first: My zipper was definitely in the way. With the
noise of the train, no one noticed when I eased my fly open. But a few
experimental rubs against Clarissa's rump proved it wasn't much help.
Without a lot of thought, I reached down again. This time I brought my
rod out into the open. It was a delicate operation because I was as
stiff as a girder, but I eased my rod out.

This was getting risky, and I hadn't completely lost my mind. In the
subway, especially one as crowded as this, people don't look down. And
the side of the car we were on was going to be against the tunnel wall
for a long time; no worry about the doors opening and spilling us out
onto the platform. Still, better safe than sari, as the woman said
while she walked around Bhopal in a chemical protection suit.

I covered myself with one hand as the other slid around Clarissa's
hips. Applying gentle pressure, I pulled her back so my cock buried
itself in her robe, all but out of sight. When I resumed our rhythm,
it was definitely better; I could feel my rod settling into the crack
of her as like a frankfurter in a bun. I put both hands on her hips.
She was a little awkward at first, which was OK. I figured it went
with the whole act. But soon she got into it too, giving me a little
twist of her ass from time to time. I looked down and saw a small spot
of wetness on the habit as precum oozed out of me.

Too many years of Catholic school education and too many repressed
fantasies about nuns, I guess, but I almost lost it right then and
there. I had to marshal all my willpower to keep from slamming my
sausage against her in a few brutally quick thrusts and blasting my
jism all over her habit.

But I held back and gradually got back into a normal rhythm, clutching
Clarissa's butt to me. I threw several sidelong glances, but no one
seemed to be noticing anything amiss. Same old same old, lights
flashing past every few seconds like megaton fireflies in the
darkness, cold neon tubes in the train washing the color out of
everyone's faces inside. Three guys sitting side by side on a bench,
silently struggling against each other for elbow room. There was some
kind of commotion at the far end of the car; all I could see was a big
ball of blonde hair bobbing around in the crowd of heads. Another
passenger who'd missed her stop and was trying to shove her way to the
door. You can't wait until the last second when a train's so crowded;
you have to strike out several stops ahead and take advantage of every
opening, however small. Saying "excuse me" has as much effect as
shushing a locomotive.

It was a dry hump steady as a train that I was giving Clarissa. My
rubbing and the pressure of my grip had pulled up her robe a bit; the
folds of cloth bunched around her waist grew slowly but surely.
Underneath, slowly revealed, were a pair of plain black flats and
beige pantyhose. Quite a change from Clarissa's usual attire; she was
playing this role to the hilt.

But I was getting too horny to play much longer. I pulled up on her
outfit more boldly now, heaving it up inch by inch. The hem crept past
her knees. It started moving even faster. I looked down; she had
grabbed her robe in both hands and was pulling up. This was more like
it. I let her take over there as I slid my hands around to her
stomach, pulling her tight to me.

A blast of air when the door opened across from us came as a shock; we
froze. But the car was still so packed that there was hardly any
movement. By the time the door shut again, we were back at it.

But it seemed wise to check out the crowd again. Still no sign we'd
attracted any attention. Everyone had their vacant, glassy
riding-in-an-elevator stares in place. Though it was noisy enough, it
was a white noise that drowns everything else. All I could hear above
it was, just barely, some hubbub in the middle of the car. Couldn't
make out what it was, but when I looked over the blonde head from
before seemed to be in the middle of it. Jeez, had she completely
missed the door on her end and gotten swept to the middle? Some people
just aren't cut out for public transportation.

Clarissa had managed to get her robe almost all the way up to her
waist as I returned my attention to her. I pulled back from her ass
for a second and she yanked it up the rest of the way, then let it
drop back down. The robe fell over our junction, neatly concealing my
cock as it rutted against her firm ass with only her underwear between
us. But it wouldn't have been much of a secret to anyone who bothered
to look. Her habit, trapped in back and falling only to her knees in
front, exposed her spread legs. I was plastered against her from foot
to head, my face buried in the folds of the hood that concealed her
face from me. Our asses were banging back and forth. And my hands had
crept up and found openings in the sides of the habit; sneaking inside
I'd gotten hold of her tits, encased in a bulky bra. Clarissa
continued to amaze me: I'd never seen her in anything but sheer silk
or nipple-baring push-ups before. It took me awhile to remember
long-unused skills and manage to unhook her bra without seeing it, but
in time I was able to slide the stiff cups off her and put my hands
directly on her quivering tits.

Quivering, indeed. I could feel her heart thumping as I massaged her
full breasts. Clarissa usually was a bit blase about having her tits
manipulated, but this time her nipples quickly grew rock-hard under my
touch.

Meanwhile I kept humping against her. The friction of her
nylon-covered ass was too much for me. With a grunt and a groan, I
felt my cum begin to surge. I tried to pull back but Clarissa shoved
her gyrating rear back at me. Two quick thrusts and burst of hot cum
jetted out of me.

She might not have felt it, for she continued to bump her rump into
me. But soon the friction on my cock became agony, not ecstasy, and I
squirmed to keep her away. When she persisted, I realized I had better
satisfy her some other way.

While my left hand continued to play with her chest, I slid out my
right and slipped it under the hem of the heavy brown robe. She
stiffened for a moment when my fingers drifted over her crotch, but
relaxed as I brushed lightly over her stomach.

Slowly I edged upward until I reached the waistband of her pantyhose.
Pressing my hand against her hot flesh, I eased under the elastic.
Just inside I felt something soft and slightly fuzzy. Wow, I thought:
cotton panties. I'll bet they're white, too. Nice touch.

I pressed into them. Quickly I encountered a forest of crinkly hairs
-- Clarissa believed in the natural look  -- and kept going. I could
already feel the heat. It felt like a sauna (to mention another place
we'd once made out).

Down I went, feeling the dampness of her panties on the back of my
hand. Down to the first traces of slickness, to the soft, wet folds of
her pussy.

I slid my hand completely over her opening, cupping it and squeezing
gently. She responded to me, beginning to hump against my hand. As her
movement got stronger I bent my middle finger, letting her own motion
push it inside her.

It plunged through her outer lips like pushing your finger into a warm
stick of butter. Bit by bit I pressed deeper. When my finger was in
all the way I began the old in-and-out. My thumb found her clit; just
a touch of it set off a shudder that made her whole body vibrate
against me. Clarissa had never reacted like that before.

As I continued to finger-fuck her, her head lolled back against mine
and she sagged slightly. I put my left arm around her waist to hold
her steady.

Soon her own hands closed over mine, urging me on. I pressed deeper,
faster, twisting my finger from side to side, twiddling her clit.
Faster than Clarissa had ever done before, she came, her body seizing
and releasing several times. Loud, long moans rose above the racket of
the train. Anyone who hadn't noticed them surely would have smelled
the pungent odor her hot cunt gave off.

Sure enough, when I looked around behind hooded eyes, our fellow
passengers were maintaining their facade of nonchalance but they had
all moved away from us. Along the walls and in the aisles they were
stacked like cordwood, but Clarissa and I had several precious square
feet of space all to ourselves, an island of lust in a sea of
tranquility.

Well, mostly tranquility. The blonde -- I couldn't see if she was a
bombshell, but she was certainly exploding -- appeared to be throwing
some elbows as she continued to work her way through the crowd. With
her battering on one side and us humping on the other, the passengers
in between were hard-pressed to keep their faces blank. With the train
crammed full, the rest of the passengers were simply hard-pressed.

Me, I was just hard.

My cock had come back to life, riding straight and stiff along the
crack of her ass. True, we were on a crowded subway. True, we already
had attracted attention. But if I ever were to prove to Clarissa that
I was the man for her, now was time. Besides, I was just damn horny.

And so I figured in for a penny, in for a pounding. I rolled
Clarissa's pantyhose to her knees. I'd been right; her cotton panties
were white. I peeled them down, too, revealing the glorious globes of
her ass. Boy, was I glad I'd picked the end of the car away from the
schoolkids.

Clarissa, apparently spent by her orgasm, had slumped forward. I put
my arms around her to keep her on her feet. My cock lay between her
ass cheeks plump and happy, and for a moment I considered tubing her
up the butt. I'm not an anal fan, though. I wanted that creamy cunt,
and I wanted it now.

Since Clarissa was already bent slightly at the waist, I had only to
let her bend more to bring her pussy into position. Thanks to the way
everyone was avoiding us, she was able to hold onto a railing for
support as she spread her legs. I let my cock trail down her ass crack
and slip underneath her. With one hand I guided the head of my dick to
her slick tunnel entrance. She wiggled her ass when I teased my cock
across the opening a few times. She was right; this was no time for
folderol.

Holding my rod steady, I lined it up and drove forward. It shot
through her pussy lips, which snugly closed around the shaft.

But I couldn't drive in to the hilt. I figured I must have used the
wrong angle; we hadn't tried doggy-style very often. Twice I pulled
out and tried again; twice I slid in halfway and got stuck. On the
third try Clarissa pushed her ass back to meet my thrust and, after a
momentary hesitation, my cock was fully buried in her hot hole.

She shrieked as I shoved in and clamped her legs together, almost
squeezing my balls into pancakes. I held back after that; Clarissa had
never reacted like that before and I thought it was taking the naive
nun routine a little far. But in a little while she eased her legs
open and started moving her cunt back and forth. Cautiously at first,
I responded.

I hadn't remembered it ever being that good before. Her pussy held me
in a tight but gentle caress all the way in, and she wiggled and
jiggled until the very root of my rod was gripped by her hot, wet
labia. We bucked together, matching thrust for thrust, so my hard cock
slid almost all the way out, bulbous tip just barely inserted, before
it drove back in, popping past her pussy lips, smoothly entering her
warm internal embrace.

My hands roamed the lush body beneath her concealing robe, tracing the
curves of her ass, riding up and down her legs. When I reached around
and found her clit with my index finger, she moaned so deeply my cock
tingled inside her. I had to bring a hand up to wipe the sweat from my
eyes as our rutting took on more speed and intensity.

I was only moving a couple inches in and out of her now, but they were
sharp, savage thrusts, being met by equally violent movements from
her.  When I grabbed her around the waist I couldn't keep my grip on
her sweat-slick skin and I pushed her robe higher and higher. Lost in
passion, I used one hand to yank off my belt and pull down my pants.
Frustrated because my cock was still trapped in the fly of my briefs,
I tore them apart, leaving the shreds hanging from the elastic
waistband.

My shirt was plastered to my back. I was all but oblivious to the cool
breeze when the subway doors flew open at a station. Half-naked and
consumed by my desires, I concentrated on fucking Clarissa's eager
cunt.

She was shouting with every thrust, a mix of incoherent yells and a
lot of "Yes!" and "Oh!" and the occasional "Oh! Yes! Baby!" Our
fucking was so furious that it had sent her voice up a whole octave.

I wasn't much more articulate myself. "Oh, yeah, take it, baby, take
it," was about as lucid a sentence as I could string together.

But it wasn't about words. It was about flesh on flesh, cock in cunt,
the old in-and-out. We were in a cycle, fast and then slow, rough and
then nice and easy. Clarissa's robe was bunched up to her neck now and
I was rubbing her back -- it looked so pale in the train's lights. Her
bra fell to the floor and I reached around and got two heaping
handfuls of tit, massaging them as I fucked into her over and over.

Her cries rode the scales as we matched each other stroke for stroke
in perfect rhythm. The sight of her naked beauty and the thought of
our public act pushed my passion into overdrive. I slammed my cock
into her eager cunt over and over, harder and harder. My balls slapped
back and forth. Her pussy was so well lubricated by then that I had
begun to lose crucial friction, and I had to corkscrew into her to
push my cock closer to the edge.

Even so, I would feel myself edging near an orgasm only to have the
sensation ebb. My legs were growing weak. My hair was matted to my
skull, my shirt a sodden mess. I was taking in air in huge,
open-mouthed gulps. And still we fucked in harmony.

Then came the time when the feeling rose and it did not fall. A
tightness gripped my balls and I could feel my cock becoming even more
engorged, filling Clarissa's cunt wall to wall as I took my fast, deep
strokes. I began pulling her onto my rod, tugging at her waist,
grabbing at her veil. It came off in my hands as my cum blasted out of
me, huge hot spurts shooting into her body. I forced my cock as deeply
into her as I could, holding myself inside as the last pulses died
away.

Even as my dick began to deflate Clarissa called my name over and
over. It was confusing to  hear her orgasmically emphatic shouts but
see her staggering upright as my cock slipped out of her. What's more,
the shouts seemed to be coming from behind me.

I turned and saw a woman who seemed, in my dazed exhaustion, to
resemble Clarissa, but with blonde hair. I turned back to my fuck
partner and was disturbed to see that pulling off her veil had
revealed a head of short-cropped blonde hair.

As I twisted my head back and forth between them, the woman in the
nun's habit settled her robe and veil back in place. Under closer
scrutiny, she didn't resemble Clarissa much at all; her nose was
narrower, her mouth wider, her forehead bigger and her eyes darker.

The blonde behind me, on the other hand, had a very familiar scowl.
She put a hand to her head and lifted off a wig, uncovering a tousled
raven mane. "This was supposed to be your fucking surprise," Clarissa
said as she flung the wig in my face and stormed off the train.

The nun who was not Clarissa but was, apparently, very much a real nun
said nothing as she slipped away in Clarissa's wake.

I was left there butt-naked. I am still trying to forget how I got
home.

Remember how I said going with Clarissa was like teaching yourself to
parachute?

Breaking up with her was about the same.

Without the chute.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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