I love women with curves. Give me a woman with nice, round curves, a little padding, and a waspishly thin waist over a thin woman with hard edges and angles any day. Tall or short, big-boned or extra padded, those women just send my pulse chugging. That’s why I knew I was doomed the minute I saw Christie.

Every morning I travel by train to work. It’s typically 45 dull minutes reading or listening to music, twice a day. It always amazes me that by the third stop, the train is usually full, and by the fifth, it’s usually packed so tight that people are molded closer together than some concert mosh pits.

People manage to cram themselves in until you expect to hear it pop like a champagne cork when the doors open at the next stop as people spill out. Luckily, since my home stop is the last on the line, I typically get a spot to sit in the morning, and my work stop is past a major transfer point, so I can usually get one on the way back, too.

One morning I was heading into work a little later than usual. The last few weeks we’d been crashing a project and pulling late nights in order to hit the deadline. We finally rolled it out the night before, and I decided to sleep in late to recover. When I got on the train, it was already more full than usual, so I had to find a spot away from the area that I usually sit at and pulled open my book to read.

My eyes were pretty tired still from the late nights, so I was having a tough time staying focused on my reading. I found myself looking up and around at the people more than usual. It was at that point that I saw her standing about six feet away, leaning against the wall by the door, and reading a book.

I had no idea where or when she got on, but now that I saw her, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was young -- early twenties -- and wore a rather conservative style for her age. Instead of the skin-tight skirts that ended above the knee and baby-doll tees that most women her age are wearing, she wore a white, silky blouse buttoned up close to her throat and a navy blue skirt that went past her knees.

I couldn’t help myself and started looking up from her feet. It was obvious that she walked a lot or exercised, and the heels made her calf muscles tighten into firm lines. She leaned against the wall slightly, so I could see the outline of her wide hips and generous curves of her ass against the skirt.

I followed those curves to an impossibly thin waist and then past the tucked-in blouse on up. It looked like she must have had large breasts, but her bra was confining them tightly. She had short, black hair, a round face, and large, blue eyes. As I was checking her out, the old lady that sat near her was looking at me. Our eyes met, and the old lady smirked. I was embarrassed that I got caught staring, so I looked away. But I couldn’t do that for long.

I kept stealing glances over at her, watching her read. Occasionally, she would shift her weight to a different foot, and I would watch her hips shift and imagine what it would be like watching her walk. Suddenly, she started to laugh at something in the book. She must have been surprised that she laughed out loud in the quiet train car and started to look around to see whether anyone noticed. And that’s when she saw me looking at her.

She looked rather surprised, and we stared for a while before she smiled and looked back at her book. For the next couple of stops, we played “eye tag.” She would try to look when she thought I wasn’t looking and glance away when she saw I was, and I would do the same to her. As the car filled, my view of her body was blocked, but I could still see her face. When we got to her stop, I watched how her hips twitched as she walked slowly off and then caught her looking back at me.

I spent the next three stops trying to get my hard-on to go down before I had to stand up. I was absolutely worthless at work that day and couldn’t get her out of my head. When I left that night, I tried to spot her but didn’t see her. For the next couple of days, I went in late but didn’t see her. I gave up and kept kicking myself for not talking to her or saying something.

Finally, a few days later, I saw her again. It was pretty crowded, and I had just given my seat up to a pregnant woman and was standing by the door when she walked on. She remembered me as well and stopped for a moment, smiling shyly before getting on the train and standing just to the other side of the door--about three feet from me. She was wearing a similar outfit as before: a conservative blouse and skirt with heels.

I couldn’t stay focused on my book and started glancing at her again. As the train filled up, we started getting pushed closer together. More people got on, and she was right next to me, turned sideways. She was blushing slightly and staring hard at her book. I was thinking, “Say something to her, you idiot! She’s right there,” when the door opened, and more people got on. She turned her back to me to allow more people to cram in and was pushed up right against me.

In her heels, she fit perfectly against me. Her ass was pressed against my hips, and her head was just under my chin. She was too short to hang on to the handrails on the ceiling, so she stood with her legs wide apart to brace herself. Her right hand propped up her book, while her left hand rested against the wall to stabilize. As the train moved, she started to bump against me.

I quickly got hard, and while I’m not Johnny Holmes, I know it would be noticeable in my pants if anyone looked or if she pressed against me. I tried to move my hips away so she wouldn’t feel it, but as more people got on and jammed behind me, she was pressed against me. I was horrified when she finally bumped her ass against me. She could feel it. She shifted her hips slightly as if double-checking what she felt and then glanced slightly over her shoulder, blushing. But then she looked like she had made a decision and slowly pressed back into me.