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Well-trained

  1. This is not an invitation to expose yourselves to strangers on public transport, no matter how up for it they seem. It’s fiction. Fantasies do not have to become realities.
  2. CN – voyeurism, exhibitionism, sex with strangers
  3. No, I am not back. I’m just in a good writing groove
  4. I liked the punny title, but this is not a D/s story
  5. The jury is out on whether you can slice off a pair of knickers with a house/car key. Please weigh in in the comments.
  6. This story is exactly 2000 words which is very pleasing to me.

***

 

M&S had run out of gin-in-a-tin. That was the beginning of the end. I’d already sat through a meeting that could have been an email and three interviews of people vastly overqualified for the junior positions we had available. I hadn’t wanted to bring them in, it wasn’t fair but I had and I had found every one of them charming, incisive and worth more than £11.93 an hour. And now, no easily chuggable booze for the long train home. The only upside was the panel discussions afterwards had generated a sweet three hours of time in lieu and the train at 8pm was quieter, quicker and emptier than peak time. I settled for a bag of Percy pigs and bottled water, happily bagging a free table seat, slumping into the corner with my headphones in.

With eyes drooping closed I felt the table rock as he sat down opposite me, and lifted the lids just enough to check him out. Jacket, freshly shaved. Someone’s on a night out, maybe a date. He didn’t look up from his phone and I, satisfied he wasn’t some kind of sex pest or over-eager seat companion, dozed off again.

Surely, surely no one keeps the camera click sound on their phone these days? It’s such a 2015 move. Not so this chap. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Selfies, I bet. Someone’s a fan of himself, I think, conveniently ignoring the terrifying number of shots I took of my outfit before I left the flat this morning. Make up for the groupchat. My left nipple poking artistically through the frayed lace on my favourite bra, that one was just for me. Hardly power woman workwear but to the outside viewer my breasts were presented to their full advantage and I had yet to find another one to match it.

Eyes open with annoyance now, I looked at him; completely oblivious to me, he only had eyes for iOS. Smiling down at his device. I know that smile. That smile made me shift a little in my seat, sent a tiny little wave of excitement through my body, circling the chubby sweetness of my cunt and then dispersing. He shifted too; one hand under the table. I watched as the absent hand moved and the shutter clicked.

Now my interest was piqued. If he was going to deploy crotch shots less than four feet away from me, I was taking that as an invitation to watch, though from my respectful distance, of course. But as soon as this decision was solid in my brain; he stood. Having spent so long with my eyes fixed at table level, my gaze lingered on his groin, on his startlingly obvious erection. Jeans so tight it must have been uncomfortable to bring himself to a state of even partial arousal. I was blushing and squeezed my eyes tight shut as if that would fool anyone that I was a snoozing commuter and not a fucking pervert.

Apologizing as he knocked the table, I waved my hand, mumbling incomprehensibly that it was quite alright and then watched him head down the gangway to the toilets, where he’d be free to take better lit, more explicit photos of himself, to the delight of the eventual recipient.

I could picture him stood with one hip jutted against the cream plastic walls, gripping his cock, the head exposed and glistening under the artificial glimmer. Or maybe he would only show the dick print through his boxers; maybe this was just the beginning of a long night of teasing for whoever was on the other end of the messages. Maybe he was just aching for a piss.

My mind would only flick back to him touching himself, heading to the very brink of arousal then washing his hands and coming back to taunt me with unavoidable fantasies of his cock.

This is clearly what happens to me after a long day and no gin.

I stopped pretending to be asleep; when he returned I was studiously examining my phone the way he was; a little narcissism, going through old photos, video clips with the volume firmly muted. Sometimes I’d look up at him and consider which ones he’d prefer. Which ones would incite the elusive cock shot? Would he be turned on to see me deep-throating another guy’s dick? I admit I’m biased; I think I look great, all clear skin, smeared lipstick and a slightly pained, desperate smile on my face as my eyes water from the meat in my throat partially blocking my airway.

I could see it, lying thickly against his thigh as he sat down. Some deep, seedy part of me wanted to casually rise up from my seat, retrace his path and search for evidence of his activities. The smell of sweat. A sheen of cum. Anything really. No, that way madness lies. What do I get out of seeing a stranger’s bodily fluids?

I unbuttoned the first couple of buttons on my coat. Chewed my bottom lip. Unbuttoned a couple more, then slipped it off. The neckline on my office dress sank lower in my slumped position; if he looked up he’d see the curling black lace cups of that ancient bra with their loose threads, my flesh spilling out at odd angles.

Why wasn’t he looking up? I was nothing to him, background noise. I wasn’t part of his story the way I had forced him into mine. Look at me. Notice me. I’m pretty. My tits are substantial. My cunt slicks at a moment’s notice. There’s twenty minutes left on this journey. Almost forty between me and home, my bed, the toys in my bedside cabinet.

How am I so wet though? I feel the fabric of my knickers clinging to me, working its way between my labia. A little uncomfortable, a little pleasurable. Certainly distracting.

Is he going straight to their place to fuck them? Maybe they’re at home and he’s on his way out, his only intention to make them a squirming mess. He’s making me a squirming mess just by fucking osmosis. I swear I can smell my own arousal and convince myself he can too. He can smell it and he doesn’t fucking care. Someone explain to me why I’m annoyed that this perfect stranger isn’t interested in draining his balls in me?

The dress was button up, all the way down to the hem. I unfastened the ones around my belly, easing one hand inside the waistband of my tights, mirroring his movement around his flies. I know there was no way for me to do what I needed without the Transport Police cuffing me, and any wank, surreptitious or toilet-bound or otherwise wouldn’t really compare to the fantasy of him inside me. I can assess the swelling of my cunt, though. A feather light touch and I shiver.

Fifteen minutes now. Both engrossed in our phones. Although I must be letting my expression falter a little because the next time he gets up, he glances in my direction.

“Are you OK?” His voice is a touch rougher than I’d anticipated. The concern seems oddly sincere.

“Hmm? Sorry.”

“Sorry, I know it’s none of my business but you look like you’ve had a hard day.”

“Just… tired, you know? Off somewhere fun tonight?”

Other passengers might think we’re acquaintances, though they’d wonder why we sat in silence for the first six stops. He smiles.

“Drinks with friends.”
“Lucky friends.” Ugh, cringe central. “Sorry, long day.”

He’s still stood up, looking down on me. Only then to I realise I still have one hand beneath the table, between my legs, and just one finger between my lips. Can he tell? At the very least he has probably clocked I’m turning crimson. I must look a state, tits awry, touching herself, half asleep and the colour of a freshly-boiled lobster. My expression is somewhere between embarrassment and innocence.

His smile deepens, widens. A touch of menace, perhaps. Menacing in a fun way.

I stand up.

“Were you going to the loos? Only… I’m bursting.”

He cocks his head.

“Ladies first.” He gestures along the aisle, past rows and rows of empty seats. I shuffle past him awkwardly, suddenly aware of my gaping buttons but choose to pretend I haven’t noticed, and in the distorted reflection of the windows, see he is watching me walk away.

The cubicle is cramped, of course. Only afterwards will I remember those thoughts of catching traces of him and blush and laugh.

I don’t even sit. I lean my hip against the wall just how I pictured him and oh fuck, even though I knew I was wet it’s still a shock that my fingers slip inside so easily, my clit protruding and I only moan as loudly as I do because the carriage is a ghost town; the only sound is the gentle rocking of the shuttle as it travels on through the night. And a knocking.

“Everything alright in there?”

I swallow. My ears are ringing. And I don’t answer, but I remove my hand from my knickers, and release the door lock.

He’s still smiling. We stare at each other.

“Can I come in?”

I don’t answer, only move aside so he can join me.

“Were you watching me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what I was doing?”

“Yes.”
“What?” he asks, stroking himself through his jeans.
“Taking dick pics.”

“You’re very observant.”
“You’ve got a really big dick.” I counter. “Who were you taking them for?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. Can I see it up close?”

We might be discussing how his mum is, the conversation flows so neatly in the cadences of polite exchanges. He unzips his flies, eases down his trunks and we both watch his cock spring forth as he folds the fabric back. I sigh.

“I see you approve.”

“Well I thought you’d noticed my approval when you clocked I wasn’t coming in here to piss.”

The tension is so electrified, one false move and we’d burst into flames. He sits, one fist curled around the base of his cock. I lean over, my mouth tantalisingly close to the head, shiny and inviting, and slide my hand into his pocket, retrieving his keys. He looks confused until he sees me pass them between my thighs and he hears the satisfying noise of the metal ripping through nylon tights and plain cotton knickers.

I can’t describe how satisfying it is when I clamber onto his lap and sink down onto his cock. Of course there’s no room for manoeuvre but he nuzzles his face between my breasts and thrusts into me; deeper, deeper.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. Fuck. FUCK.”
“You’re so big. Oh fucking hell.”

“I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.

“Mine is the next stop. I need you to come in me.”
“Oh, say that again.”
“I need you to come in me, I need it right now.”

“Oh fuck. OH FUCK!”

From my seat, I see the station hove into view, yawn and begin to gather my things for a swift exit and a brisk walk home, possibly via the Tesco Metro for gin-in-a-tin. Maybe. I’m not in the mood now, nor the Percy Pigs.

It must be his stop too, he reluctantly slides his phone into his pocket and zips up his coat – the platform is murderously cold in these winter months. I hope he can’t tell from my expression as we exit the train that he had fucked me several times over in my imagination during that short journey. Beyond the gates, he’s met by a beautiful woman in a red coat. I watch him whisper in her ear, and her hand caresses the fork in his trousers. They probably think no one notices them in the commuter maelstrom.

But I do.

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