Date: Fri, 12 Feb 2010 05:55:06 -0800 (PST) From: Ripe Briefs Subject: The Subway Car It was hot and sticky on the subway car, but fortunately not too crowded for me to have a seat. As the car rocked back and forth, I absent-minded lifted up my shirt and scratched just above my belly button, exposing for a few seconds my stomach. Meanwhile, I looked across the subway car - this was one of the old ones where you face inward - and saw another teenage boy who stared at my boxer shorts, of which about two inches were visible above my sagging jeans. His jaw hung slightly open, and he had a look of lust. He suddenly regained his composure, and looked at my face, quickly darting his eyes downward when he saw I was watching him watch me. He had the look of shame from being caught, from being exposed. But as I checked out the boy, who I guessed to be 15 or 16, he didn't at all appear to be the stereotypical meek gay boy, the geeky type who gawks at hot guys without a clue about their transparent desires. The boy looked a bit ragged, with dingy and tattered old Levis, an old t-shirt with some long-forgotten band's name, and a baseball cap placed backwards. He looked more streetwise and tough than homeless and down and out. And while thin and sinewy, he had defined muscles that in a more preppy looking boy would suggest soccer or swimming, but on him suggested street hockey. He suddenly blinked, shook his head forcefully, then yawned and stretched backwards in his seat, exuding an attitude of not caring the least bit what I or anyone else thought about him - years of training to appear cocky on reflex, no doubt. His yawning stretch continued, and he raised his arms up above his head and spread and extended his legs. The man sitting next to him took notice, then shifted a few inches away from him in his seat, affording the boy more room. Now it was my turn to look at his crotch. His shirt rode up, showing off a little skin, but his old jeans were tight and fairly high - no underwear was in sight above his waist. But on further inspection, I noticed a hole a little larger than a silver dollar at the seam between the front and back of his jeans, just below a reasonable sized bulge. For a moment, I felt like I was outside my body, an objective observer trying to scream at someone - me - to close his mouth and stop staring. But all I heard was the screeching of the subway wheels around the bend, allowing the yawning boy to observe my interest. I wondered if I subconsciously sent him a message. I didn't have to wonder long. The boy's reaction was as sudden as it was unexpected - he glared at me, sort of a fuck-you expression that said I misinterpreted him earlier, and that he'd beat the shit out of me if I didn't keep my distance. I looked down, sullen and embarrassed. The boy's glare abated, and he was at once content and disinterested. The trained suddenly lurched forward, then came to a quick stop in the middle of the tunnel, causing dozens of passengers to bend sideways in unison, and then to bend sideways the other direction. As I returned to an upright sitting position, I looked across at the boy, who looked particularly dismayed by the jerking movements, more pained than annoyed. He fidgeted and adjusted himself in his seat, then let out a telltale grunting noise. We sat silently in the dark tunnel for a couple minutes, then were greeted by a grumbling and static announcement admonishing us to stay in our seats during the delay. There was no suggestion of whether the delay would be seconds, minutes or hours. Many groaned or rolled their eyes, but the boy across looked scared for a few seconds before regaining his composure. He was an enigma, I thought; a hot, swarthy enigma. Five minutes turned to 10, and then 20, and the boy was demonstrably antsy, shifting around in his seat. And then it hit me - he must have to go to the bathroom badly. And from his occasional grunts, I surmised he had to shit, not piss. Yes, that had to be it - his movements and noises were byproducts of stomach cramps, not holding his bladder. I smiled to myself at this, thinking the tough little thug boy was trying to keep himself from shitting his pants on the subway. The boy again glared at me. I either didn't smile to myself as much as I thought, or he was a mind reader. I suspected a little of both, which made me as quite uncomfortable. He was the one struggling not to shit his pants, yet I was uncomfortable. "Remain in your seats," the announcement suddenly blared, ignoring the fact that we were all in our seats. "Repairs and under way and we will be moving once they are completed." I looked down the tunnel in both directions but could see no lights or signs of anyone, let alone repair work. A chorus of groans filled the subway car. But one groan was distinctly different. It came from the boy, who now had lines of sweat running down his face. His pain must have been intense, as he squeezed his knees together while holding his breath and contorting his face. I felt sorry for the boy, relieved it was him and not me, and - I was ashamed to admit even to myself - a bit self- righteous as if justice was being served to this boy, whom I imagined had tormented scores of younger, smaller and weaker boys. Our eyes suddenly met again, but this time I locked my stare into his eyes. I was oblivious to whatever my eyes revealed, focused entirely into the depths of his eyes. And I saw combination of disdain, not caring what I thought, and a plea for sympathy. He suddenly lifted up his seat a few inches and pulled downward on the legs of his jeans. His hands then went to his gut, and his t-shirt slipped upward as he held the source of his discomfort. I noticed about an inch of underwear was now exposed, and was surprised that he didn't wear boxers. Instead, he had on white briefs, no doubt several years old by the old FTL logo on the waistband. He spread his legs again, and I looked at the hole in his groin, and I could plainly see the white cotton of his briefs. And I noticed that his bulge seemed a bit bigger, as if struggling to hold it in aroused him. I also noticed that I began getting hard, and my dick extended down the left leg of my sagging jeans. The boy saw this, and he gave me a perplexed look, as if questioning what exactly was turning me on. I wasn't sure, but I tried to look as compassionate and empathic as I could, as if saying, "Peace man." His knees were again pressed together, and he squirmed in pain, but his eyes only averted from mine to check out my elongating hard on. I thought of covering my crotch with my hand, but that would only draw more attention to it. Suddenly the boy smiled, not an ear-to-ear grin, but a discernible smile nevertheless. And he slowly spread his legs open again, and gently fingered his hole, rubbing against his white briefs. He used no words, but he communicated as clearly as if he had yelled, "Hey, check out my underwear and watch me shit in them." I licked the inside of my lips and peered into his eyes, and he suddenly looked relaxed. I returned my gaze to his crotch, and he rose up a couple inches off his seat, and spread his legs just enough for me to watch. I first noticed a bulge pushing out his briefs, expanding them taught like a drum. He then seemed to bear down, squeezing it out, as if overcoming resistance. Then I noticed his jeans behind the hole in his pants bulge out quickly, and extensively. He obviously had shit a lot. The boy's face showed great relief, as if 1,000 pounds had been lifted off him. Then he looked at me and his expression of relief turned to one of challenge, as if challenging me - was I disgusted or did I think it was cool that he shit his pants on the subway car. I mouthed the word "wow." And as I stared, my hand found its way down to my crotch and squeezed my hard dick in my pants. I think he realized what I was doing before I did, and a sinister smile spread across his face. He reached down to his crotch, and fingered his underwear that held the pile of shit within. After gauging my expression - whatever it may have been - he stopped fingering with his briefs and stood up slowly and carefully. He stood in place, staring at me, then took two slow steps towards me, stopping with his crotch inches from my face. "I think we've waited long enough," he suddenly said. "What do you say we hit the emergency exit over there?" It was the first time I heard his voice, which was as self- assured and gruff as his thuggish demeanor suggested. I simply nodded, as if I'd follow him no matter what. And I did. He opened the emergency exit, and walked off the train, taking an awkward step as his pants were quite full. He didn't turn around to see if I followed; he didn't need to - he knew I would. No one else got off the subway car, leaving us alone in the dark tunnel. "This way," he said, and walked backward along the track, saying nothing, not looking. When we were about a car length behind the back of the subway, he stopped and turned. "This is far enough," he said. "Far enough for what?" He laughed. "You're such a little faggot," he added. "You almost shot a load in your pants watching me shit my pants." I realized it was true, and that I was harder than ever. He stepped forward and grabbed the bottom of my shirt and in one motion pulled it upwards, over my head and off. It was dark in the tunnel, but not pitched black. There was just enough light to see shapes and shades of gray. He felt my smooth stomach, then moved his fingers across the top of my boxers, as if he were exploring, feeling what boxers felt like for the first time. "You try to be cool by wearing cool boxers and baggy pants," he said, "but you're just a little faggot, aren't you?" "What do you mean?" I queried. "I mean this," he said, and he moved his hand down and grabbed my dick through my pants. He squeezed it, and kept the pressure on as he leaned forward, and whispered, "You liked watching me shit my pants. And now you want to take my pants off and feel the shit in my tighty whities, don't you?" I was speechless, but my body answered with unabashed honesty, and I began to orgasm in my pants. He could feel it pulsing with each shot of cum jettisoning inside my boxers. "Yeah," he answered, squeezing my dick more as I continued to cum in my pants, "you are a big faggot boy. And now you're gonna make me get off." I looked at him for a couple seconds, then did what he silently willed me to do. I got on my knees and put my hands gently on his crotch. He was hard, and I groped him through his tight jeans and briefs. I continued to squeeze his dick with my left hand as my right hand slipped lower, and I cautiously slipped a couple fingers into the hole in his jeans and rubbed against his briefs. It was soft, and I realized I was pressing against shit. I slipped my fingers in further, upward between his jeans and briefs towards his ass, and my hand cupped over his bulge of shit. "You like my shit, don't ya faggot boy?" I said nothing, but replied by unbuttoning the fly of his jeans. I paused, to see if he'd resist, and when he didn't, I proceeded to unbutton his fly, then took both hands to carefully pull them down, leaving his soiled briefs on. "Oh god," I exclaimed, taking in his thin but powerful legs, and his tight underwear, which was as well packed with shit in the back as it was by his hard dick in the front. I leaned forward on my knees and pressed my face and lips against his crotch, and felt his dick through the cotton fabric. Meanwhile, I put my hands around behind him and held his ass, occasionally moving them down to feel his shit through them. I did this for a minute, and then became aroused and emboldened enough to open the fly of his FTLs, pull his dick out, and swallowed it whole. I mumbled and whimpered in ecstasy. "Suck my dick you faggot," he bellowed. "And squeeze my shit while you suck me." I gladly complied, and as I pressed his shit up against his ass I felt his dick thicken in my mouth, and could taste his pre-cum leak in the back of my throat. "Yeah, that's it," he groaned. "Keep sucking till I shoot." At those words, I got hard again, and I took his dick as deep as I could, craving to feel him cum in my mouth. "You're such a faggot," he said through his gasping. "You such a cocksucking faggot," he screamed, then his body contorted, tightened, and I felt his dick pulse as he shot a wad of cum into the back of my throat. I whimpered as he came in my mouth, and I moved him hands from his shit to his butt cheeks, squeezing them and pulling him into me as he continued to shoot in my mouth, repeating "you faggot," each time he shot. It took about 20 seconds for each of us to catch our breath. I remained on my knees; he stood still. "I'm hard again," I said, savoring the telltale taste of his cum in my mouth. "Well you're in luck faggot," he said. "I'm gonna let you cum in your pants a second time." And with that he grabbed his dick and aimed it at my face and began to piss. He then pissed down my chest and over my crotch, soaking my jeans. I grabbed my dick through my wet pants and squeezed my raging hard on. He aimed his piss back to my face, and I opened my mouth and let it fill up. I didn't taste anything, but it felt warm and excited me that it came out of his dick. I swallowed and let it fill again. "Yeah, drink my piss you little faggot." He stepped forward to piss more closely in my mouth, then I leaned into him and took his dick into my mouth, swallowing every time my mouth was full. "You're such a faggot," he yelled, and as he promised, I again came in my pants, this time with his pissing dick in my mouth. "I am a faggot," I replied. "And I came in my pants again." "Let's get out of this tunnel before we're caught," he said. "And if you're a good faggot, I'll let you suck me off again." "I'll be good," I said earnestly. "I'll do anything to suck your dick. Anything." "I know," he said, laughing. "You sure proved that." We walked quietly for a few minutes before he broke the silence. "I can't wait to have my little brother watch. Maybe I'll have him piss on you while you're on your knees sucking my dick." I said nothing, but felt my dick swell in my wet pants as we walked down the dark tunnel towards the next station. ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** (The author may be reached at ripebriefs @ yahoo.com with comments, constructive criticism or your great grandmother's paella recipe.)