A row of scrawny maples rustled in the bitter cold wind, a wind which had long since numbed Sarah's fingers and made her wish she'd worn something more than a skirt.
Eventually,
Sarah thought,
I'll have to grow up and actually start wearing practical clothing like a sensible woman.
Somehow she doubted she'd ever start doing the sensible thing if she hadn't started already.
The seemingly ever-present blanket of clouds blocked out the light of the moon and would have cast the train platform in utter darkness were it not for dim glow of a single street light. Sarah waited for the blue line train which would take her westward; home.
It was fetish night at the local swingers' club and Sarah had the bruises on her ass to prove it. Her only regret was that the last westbound train came a full two hours before the party would end, and so she was forced to leave it early and return to her anaesthetic life, the life of a secretary in a drab office with an even drabber employer.
Sarah blew into her cupped hands and then rubbed them together. Her legs felt like ice cubes. She took a break from rubbing her hands together to rub them on her thighs instead, but no amount of friction she could summon was enough to offset the biting cold.
Invisibility was Sarah's secret curse. In school she had not once been asked to answer a question in front of the class, and she quietly accepted her passing grades, thankful to skate through with minimal discomfort. But that invisibility had followed her into adulthood, and now she was passed up for promotions and exciting new job offers on a regular basis. All she could think about was that she was turning thirty next month. Shouldn't she have a career that excited her by now?
"Do you know—" Sarah jumped at the sound of this stranger's voice. She'd been so caught up in her own misery—both at the cold, and at her largely uneventful aging—that she hadn't even noticed anyone walk up. "—when the next train is scheduled?" he finished.
Sarah turned around to face him. Short-cropped dark hair and an angular jaw framed ever-so-slightly chapped lips and piercing green eyes. Those eyes scanned her from head to toe, pausing mid-thigh where her skirt gave way to bare leg. "You look bloody miserable, miss. And I apologize if I gave you a fright."
He was
so
British! His thick English accent immediately conjured up in Sarah's mind images of the Doctor zipping from planet to planet and defeating the last of the Daleks for the umpteen zillionth time with nothing but a sonic screwdriver and a little elbow grease.
She smiled.
Accents always made her smile.
Plus, he was attractive—in a lanky, only-Sarah-could-find-this-attractive kind of way. Sarah couldn't help but be drawn to the outliers of male beauty. Her art degree was the cause, she was sure.
Good enough to appreciate scrawny men, but not good enough to get more than a secretarial position at mediocre law firm,
she thought.
She retrieved her phone from her skirt pocket with little trouble, but it took three tries to hit the power button with her stiff fingers, just to get the time. 11:59.
"It should have been here three minutes ago."
"Bollocks."
She smiled even wider at his choice of British profanity. If he threw in a few "wankers" or "arseholes," she might have to fuck him right here on the platform.
Damn accents and their hypnotic power,
she quipped to herself.
Then the rails started to hiss with the sound of the approaching train, vibrating like some giant guitar strings bent on playing a lullaby. The train peeked its lights around the corner and decelerated toward the platform, coming to a stop in front of Sarah and the stranger.
"This is a westbound blue line train..." came the recorded announcement from the train.
"This'll be us, then," said the stranger. He motioned for Sarah to board first.
Onboard the train, Sarah nabbed one of the inward-facing seats in the middle of the car. Even though there were dozens of empty seats at this time of night, the Englishman sat down right beside her. She hoped he hadn't noticed her wincing as she sat down; the bruises on her ass a pleasantly painful reminder of the paddling she'd gotten tonight. She smiled. Fetish nights provided her one of the rare opportunities to be in an exceptionally good mood.
"Here, take this," he said, draping his gray, woolen peacoat over her scantily clad legs.
"I really shouldn't—"
"No, really, you must," he insisted, cutting off her protest. "You're practically glacial." His hand pinned the coat firmly to her lap until he was sure she wouldn't resist. "That's much bloody better."
Sarah looked down at the floor of the train, noting the shoe print captured in the chewing gum stuck there. As the train entered the tunnel, Sarah finally worked up the courage to talk to her benefactor. She wasn't used to people being so forward in these parts. Mostly, she was just surprised that someone was paying her any attention outside of the club. "So, um, where are you from?" she asked, turning to look toward him.
The Englishman looked her in the eyes for a small eternity, searching for something, before he finally answered. "I was born in Liverpool and grew up Cardiff, but the last few years before I came to the States I'd spent working in London." He just stared at her again for a moment before smiling a coy smile, lips barely upturned. "But you don't really want to know all that, do you?"
He smiled and slipped his hand under the coat, resting it on the inside of her thigh. She inhaled sharply and placed her hand on his through the coat. "What are you—"
"Shh." He leaned close and whispered so that no one else could hear, "I saw you at the club. I know what a fucking whore you are." He licked her earlobe and sat back in his seat.
Sarah's head was spinning. She knew his intentions were sexual—the way he smiled at her, and the way his hand went straight to her inner thigh, left no room for doubt. But this was so different from the insulated club environment where affirmative consent was the de facto standard. Her brain was telling her to say no, that while it was a hot fantasy, it should stay just that. Her body, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than for her to cave under the pressure.
Sarah looked around the train to see if anyone else was watching. There was an old man in the back reading a newspaper, and a greasy-haired woman, feet propped up on a seat, fast asleep.
We practically have the train to ourselves
, she thought, trying to justify the deed she was contemplating.
The Englishman didn't wait for Sarah to convince herself; he just started rubbing her thigh. Sarah's reaction came involuntarily. Her clit throbbed with anticipation. She bit her lip and thrust her hips toward his hand.
"Settle down," he said sternly, like a parent to a over-excited child, smiling all the while. Sarah couldn't help herself. In the battle between her mind and her body, her body had won. That a complete stranger could do this to her in public, could want her too badly to wait—neither for permission, nor to be behind closed doors—made her so hot.
"Please, just touch me," she whispered.
"You don't even know who I am," he replied.
"I don't want to know," she gasped.
Hearing that made the Englishman smile even wider, revealing his pearly white teeth.
With his thumb, he traced circles around her clit through her underwear. As they left the tunnel the lights in train flickered, causing Sarah to scan the train once again and make sure none of the other passengers were paying attention. Still nothing. She closed her eyes and focused on the Englishman's touch, rocking her hips ever so slightly, which reminded her of the bruises on her ass all the more. Her hard nipples showed through her thin cotton shirt.
At the next stop, some twenty-something in a beanie and headphones got on the train and sat a few seats down facing toward them. He made eye contact with Sarah briefly, and then looked away. Sarah's heart was racing.
Did he know what they were doing?
She gripped the peacoat tighter, hoping it veiled what they were doing underneath.
The Englishman wasn't bothered by the potential audience. He slipped his middle finger into the leg hole of her panties and pulled them aside, granting himself full access to her wet pussy.
"I don't know if we should—"
He hushed her again. Sarah trembled as much from the excitement of public debauchery as from the feel of his fingers tracing the lips of her pussy. He rubbed her slit with his middle finger, too, but didn't put it inside her, as much as she wanted him to.
Being so exposed to him reignited the fight between her body and mind. She wanted his touch so much more now, but she was also that much more certain that they would be caught. That thought excited and terrified her at the same time.
She gritted her teeth and dug the fingernails of her free hand into his arm while the other hand held the coat in place. "Don't stop," she whispered.
The twenty-something in headphones was clearly watching now, trying to figure out if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Sarah could see that he had an erection, and that excited her all the more. He looked away briefly when he saw that Sarah was looking at him, but he couldn't avert his gaze from the spectacle unfolding before him for very long. He crossed his legs to try and conceal his hard-on.
If this is what being caught felt like, Sarah didn't mind being caught.
The Englishman put two of his fingers inside her. He couldn't get them very deep because of the angle, but it still made Sarah shudder with pleasure. He slid his fingers in and out of her, slowly, but with meaning.
Sarah was panting like a bitch in heat, and she certainly felt like an animal, begging for the physical pleasures wrought by a perfect stranger in public. Still, the feeling didn't altogether displease her. She locked eyes with the twenty-something, daring him to watch. He pulled on the denim at his crotch, again trying to hide his throbbing cock.
