The downtown 6-train is completely deserted, just one empty car swaying through the tunnels under Manhattan.
Fluorescent lights flicker, wheels scream on steel.
I am naked, invisible, and standing in the middle of the car.
He steps in at Bleecker Street.
Kael, 29, hood up, paint-stained fingers, backpack full of Krylon cans.
The city’s most wanted graffiti artist, face half-covered by a black bandana, eyes sharp and restless.
The doors close.
The train lurches forward.
I move.
I’m behind him in a heartbeat, chest to his back, hands sliding under his hoodie, nails dragging down inked skin.
He spins, can in hand like a weapon, but there’s no one.
I drop to my knees, yank his jeans and boxer-briefs down in one motion.
His c**k is already rock-hard, thick, curved, a bead of pre-c*m
